Should My Sword Fall From My Hand
by Nympha Alba
Summary: When King Arthur is hit by a vicious curse, the only one who can save him is Merlin. But that was long ago - this is London in 2012, and history can't repeat itself. Or can it? The two worlds are not as separate as they seem, and one lifetime might not be enough for Arthur and Merlin to find just how closely entwined their destinies were meant to be. Merlin/Arthur.
1. Part One: Defeated King

**Disclaimer:** _Merlin_ belongs to the BBC and Shine. No money is being made and no copyright infringement is intended.

**Warnings:** Angst, minor character death, major character death (canon characters; temporary/reincarnation), non-linear timeline.

**Pairings:** Arthur/Merlin endgame. Mention of Arthur/Gwen, Arthur/other, Merlin/Freya, Merlin/other, Leon/Morgana.

**Art!** There's gorgeous, gorgeous art created for this story by **Amythystluna** on LJ. You can find it here: . ?view=407970#t407970

**Author's Notes:** This story was written for Paperlegends, the Merlin Big Bang fest on LJ. Heaps of thanks and love go to my betas, **Marguerite_26** and **Sabriel75**, to my untiring cheerleader **Isisanubis** and of course to my artist, **Amythystluna**.

The chapter quotes were taken from _The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights_ by John Steinbeck, and from various poems by Richard Siken in his wonderful collection _Crush._

**SHOULD MY SWORD FALL FROM MY HAND**

PART ONE - DEFEATED KING

_And as he rode with Merlin by his side, the king said bitterly: "You must be proud to serve me, Merlin, a defeated king, a great and worthy knight who does not even have a sword, disarmed, wounded, and helpless. What is a knight without a sword? A nothing - even less than a nothing."_

They ride out early on Arthur's request - only Arthur and Merlin, with no particular goal, aim or errand. This happens sometimes when Arthur wants to clear his head. Merlin feels honoured, pleased that he is the one Arthur asks; pleased that Arthur can relax with him, as if Merlin is part of him. No one else rides out with the king like this.

The ground is silvery with frost and Merlin shudders despite his cloak - from the cold, from lack of sleep, from the sinister light that creates a strange sense of doom. Purple clouds are building into eerie shapes above their heads and the sky is bruised with sunrise.

Later on, Merlin will think he ought to have sensed something, or read the apocalyptic light as a portent. Then he would never have made his disastrous mistake, never committed the sin of omission.

Now, everything is quiet as they ride side by side without talking. The only thing heard is the muted sound of the horses' hooves on the path, the creak of leather and the chink of bridles, dry leaves and wintry grass rustled by the wind. From time to time Merlin throws Arthur a glance, but Arthur's gaze is lost in the distance. He is absent-minded, deep in thought, but he still rides beautifully. His hands hold the reins calmly without bothering the horse's mouth, and he moves with the horse as if they are one.

Merlin has just drawn a breath to speak when the woman appears before them on the path, out of nowhere, it seems. She is middle-aged and small, clutching the ends of her worn shawl to her breast with a white-knuckled fist. The wind blows her greying hair in all directions and whips tears to her eyes.

She begins to throw hateful words at Arthur; she spits on the ground in front of his horse and curses him for letting her son be killed. There is a weak tremor of magic from her and Merlin scrutinises her through narrowed eyes, trying to read it. There is not much to sense or see. A hedge-row witch, he thinks dismissively, judging by her clothes and the sprigs of sage on a leather strap around her neck. A wise woman administering ointments and poultices, dispensing ineffectual love potions to young girls and dabbling in witch-knots and charms_._

"My good lady," Arthur begins, dismounting to be level with her. There is no annoyance or contempt his voice or eyes; they are filled with empathy. She is one of his people and soothing her anger is his task, his responsibility. His concern for her is genuine.

Merlin watches them as they stand face to face on the mud path among the stark, frost-bitten hills, the ageing woman who has lost her son and the young king struggling to grasp the depth of her pain and find the right words to meet it. His hair gleams golden in the strange light.

And then it is there, the thing that Merlin failed to sense or see. It is there before he can stop it.

The sky is ripped apart by a flash of lightning as the woman raises her hand, and the wind carries her spell forward. It is uttered in the Old Language, harsh and heavy with the magic she concealed. It hits Arthur squarely in the chest and Merlin watches the king go down like a skittle pin.

There is nothing for it but to meet magic with magic. Hers is powerful, more powerful than any Merlin has encountered for some time, sharpened as it is by grief and fury. For a split second he wonders who she is, but it does not matter. There is no time for it to matter.

She is no match for him. His magic flows liquid and obedient, hot and golden, intensified by his fear for Arthur who lies motionless on the ground. Within a second the witch has been reduced to a wisp of smoke and dispersed by the wind. Merlin staggers sideways into the high grass, clutching at his throat as he retches. Killing is like tearing at his own soul, fraying it painfully at the edges. He has killed so many, ripped so many threads from the fabric of life. Perhaps he should not have killed the witch. She was not evil, merely an unhappy woman driven by despair - but Merlin had to protect Arthur, as he has always done and always will do.

He straightens up. Conscience and reason will have to wait. Arthur needs Merlin's immediate attention.

The chainmail shirt has a cut down the chest, the metal edges bite into the flesh and Arthur is losing blood fast. Merlin's fingers hover over the wound as he murmurs frantic healing spells. They stop the bleeding, but Arthur's breathing is rapid and shallow.

Merlin soothes the nervous horses with meaningless words as he looks around. There is no one to see and not a sound is heard apart from the wind over the hills. He decides to risk using more magic. He levitates Arthur onto his own horse and mounts behind him, holding his inert body upright on the agonisingly slow ride back to the castle. Arthur's head dangles forward until Merlin tips it back on his own shoulder and keeps it there, feeling Arthur's skin burn, watching the blond lashes against the cheek and thinking how fragile a life is. He wants to scream until something shatters, wants to use magic to get them both back to the castle, get them to Gaius in an instant, but does not dare.

Above them the sky clears and morning breaks, reluctantly.

xxx

While Sir Leon and Sir Percival carry their king to his chambers, Merlin runs to get Gaius.

They all stand around Arthur's bed looking at him helplessly, before Gaius dismisses Leon and Percival and asks Merlin to help him get Arthur out of his armour.

When the armour is off, Gaius examines Arthur whose pale, unconscious face is vulnerable like a child's. Gaius's fingers tremble over the pulse point at the wrist, and when he looks up, Merlin meets his eyes and represses a shudder.

"Can you heal him, Gaius?"

The old man's eyes are dark with worry but he sounds dry as always. "I don't know, Merlin. I don't know what this is. Dark magic, evil magic, inducing some kind of poisoned fever, but I don't know the root of it. Who was she - the woman? Perhaps if we knew that, we could…"

"But I _don't_ know," Merlin says miserably, feeling his own failure like a weight. "I had never seen her before."

"A Druid woman?"

"No… well, possibly. I mean, she must have been… ? I thought she was just a hedge-row witch - you know, a wise woman of the harmless kind, until she..." He entangles himself in guilt and possibilities and arrives at nothing, lets out a frustrated breath and turns his palms up.

"Well," Gaius says, "we must try and find out."

xxx

Merlin sits by the bed with one hand on Arthur's fever-hot brow. He takes the books Gaius hands him and leafs through them lightning-fast, finding nothing useful on the fluttering pages. He closes the last book with a thud and looks at Arthur's unconscious face. He can't bear it; something has to be done. Intuition will work as well as anything, he thinks. Closing his eyes, he lets his thoughts reach out for Arthur's, tries to locate the _sense_ of Arthur that always flickers at the edges of Merlin's mind, but the glow of Arthur's presence is faint. Dying.

_Arthur! _he calls, soundlessly._ Arthur, help me. I need to know where you are, what is happening._

Something comes to him then, travelling up his fingers; he can feel the dark magic as it crawls along Arthur's veins and spreads in waves and ripples through Arthur's body. He can see the slow working of it like a map of rivers and tributaries, and tries to stop the flow with his own brand of magic: bright, liquid fire.

Arthur's eyelids flutter, a minute movement that sends wild hope into Merlin's breast. He lets fire chase after the dark poison, sends flames licking along its flow to burn everything clean.

Arthur mutters. His head moves on the pillow. After an eternity his eyes open wide and he stares up at the canopy above his bed.

xxx

Arthur moves in darkness, groping at thin air to find something solid to touch, something to tell him what kind of place he is in - a wall, a pillar, something to guide him out of there. The floor is rough and uneven under his feet and he trips and stumbles. The place has the feel of a cave: hollow, bare. He hears only the sound of his own footsteps, his own loud breathing.

The pain in his chest is cold and sharp and slices through him with each step, each breath, but he can't remember what caused the wound. A sword, a lance, a dagger…? He is wearing his chainmail shirt and it weighs him down but he can't remove it. His fingers are stiff and numb.

Merlin, where is Merlin? He really is the worst servant ever. Why is he never there when Arthur needs him?

Arthur opens his mouth but no sound crosses his lips. His blood feels cold and sluggish in his veins, every breath hurts and there is a shuddering weakness in his limbs. _I am going to die_, he thinks, very matter-of-factly.

_Merlin! Where are you?_

There is no reply, no sense of Merlin's presence, no sense of any human presence at all beside his own. And soon Arthur can't remember why he called for Merlin, why it was so important to get help. If he could only rest, if the pain would only recede for a moment… if he could sleep.

Suddenly there is a faint light. It is not enough to show him his surroundings but enough to ignite a spark of energy. It is not there with him in the cave – it seems to come from _inside_ him. Warmth comes creeping through to fight down the chill in his veins... Oh, it feels good, and he knows this feeling – familiar and safe, hopeful...

Arthur falls out of the darkness into the soft light of his own room. Dim though it is, it sears his eyes, and the pain in his chest is an excruciating, icy burn. Fire-glow licks the ceiling and something heavy rests on his forehead. A hand.

"Arthur," Merlin gasps, wild-eyed, pulling back.

The pain is like nothing Arthur has ever felt, burning inside him. When he lifts his head half an inch there are stars bursting inside his skull, tendrils of fire licking along his ribs. He falls back against the pillow and almost bites through his lip.

"Is it bad?" he whispers. "I am not dying, am I?"

Merlin leans in over him. "No," his mouth says, but his eyes are bright with tears. "Shh."

"Liar," Arthur wants to say with a smile, but finds he can't speak. His eyes wander over to Gaius to demand an explanation, to hear the truth Merlin is unable to get across his lips.

But Gaius has his back turned. The outline of his long, red tunic looks soft and fuzzily luminous in the firelight, or perhaps it is the pain blurring everything. Merlin's hand returns to Arthur's forehead like a blessing.

Moments later Arthur finds there is a kind of beauty in the white-hot agony just before the world drowns.

xxx

"Gaius, _help me_," Merlin whispers, wiping at his face with the back of his free hand. "Tell me what to do. He is dying."

"We are doing all we can, Merlin," Gaius says in the clipped way that means he is deeply worried. "Which is not much, I agree, but until we know what is going on here, we can only keep him as comfortable as possible. We need to know the illness to find the cure."

Platitudes seem to be the only thing they have, Merlin thinks bitterly as he slides his fingertips down Arthur's clammy temple, resting them there briefly to feel the reassuring, steady beat of Arthur's pulse.

"I need to fetch more books," Gaius says and hurries out of the room.

xxx

When the page boy arrives with an urgent message for Merlin to go to Gaius's chambers, Merlin is reluctant to leave Arthur's side, but Gaius would not send for him without good cause. He stands up and presses the damp cloth into the boy's hand.

"Sit here," he orders and points to the edge of the bed. "Bathe his forehead with the cloth. If there is any change, ask the guards to get me at once. Do you understand?" he adds, because the boy is staring at Arthur with wide eyes, shying away and stepping on his own toes.

"But it's... it's the _king_," he whispers.

"Yes," says Merlin mercilessly, "it's your king and he needs you."

And then he runs, leaving the boy to deal with his fear on his own.

Merlin reaches Gaius's door panting and skidding to a near-stop. When he pushes it open he sees a girl by the fire, hunched with her arms wound tightly around herself, rocking back and forth as if in pain or deep distress. She is wearing the blue cloak of the Druids. Arthur has made his peace with the Druids; they are free to come into Camelot now, any time they want and without fear. If their welcome is not particularly warm, at least they are not harmed.

Gaius has a furrow between his eyebrows and a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. He looks up when Merlin hurries in.

"Now, my dear," Gaius says to the girl, "I am sorry I interrupted you before, but I need Merlin to hear your story, too."

She pushes the hood back and straightens up, stilling as she sees Merlin. She is fair-haired, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, rather beautiful in a calm, quiet way; she is not someone he has ever seen before.

"You..." she says. Her eyes widen and her voice drops to a whisper: "You are Emrys."

She slides off the stool and down on her knees, reaches for Merlin's hand and kisses his knuckles, leans her forehead against the back of his hand. A confused blush rises to Merlin's face. He is not used to being treated like this, as if _he_ is the king.

"Please don't," he manages, barely refraining from snatching his hand back. "Please get up off the floor."

The girl looks up at him with something resembling awe, still kneeling, not letting go of his hand. "You are Emrys," she repeats in a half-dazed way. "I can feel it. Your presence. We have been waiting for you."

Now he does pull his hand away, hot with embarrassment, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Gaius bite his lip against a grin. "Please get up," Merlin says again. "We can't talk when you are on the floor. What was it you wanted to tell us?"

The girl gets back on the stool, arranging her cape around her knees. "I saw it," she says without taking her eyes off Merlin. "I saw the attack on the king."

Merlin frowns. "You - you can't have. There was no one there - no one, apart from us."

"We have ways to avoid being seen," she replies with the shadow of a smile, proud and scared. "You do not need to see me for me to be able to see you. You killed her."

Merlin draws a breath and feels himself turn pale.

"Oh, I know you did not want to," the girl adds hastily. "I could sense your thoughts. I can sense them now - you are Emrys; the echo of you is in my head. You had to protect your king."

Merlin shifts uneasily; he has never felt so naked. He does not know how to defend himself against this girl. She is invasive, not like Mordred was, but in a soft relentless way. He does not understand her. Nor does he understand how she hid from him where there was no place to hide.

"So the woman was one of you?" Gaius asks.

"She used to be one of us. But then things happened." The girl bites her lip as she looks from Merlin to Gaius and back again. "She saw her husband killed by King Uther. He made her watch. Then she lost her only son in a battle led by King Arthur. The Pendragons took her life away; the grief took her sanity. She was lost to us," the girl says tonelessly. "Sometimes we saw her, gathering herbs and talking to herself. We knew she used to have power but we thought it was lost, that she was harmless."

"I am so sorry," Merlin mumbles. "I had no choice but to kill her."

"She was already lost to us," the girl repeats, staring straight through Merlin as if he does not exist. "But I heard her, I heard what she said. I heard what she cast on the king."

She is very pale now, her skin almost translucent. She slides off the stool again and clutches at Merlin's robes, bending down until her forehead touches the hem. "Please forgive us," she says almost inaudibly. "This is a terrible thing. There should not be curses like this. They ought not to exist."

"What does it do?" Gaius voice is like a knife. "You are wasting our time, girl. Out with it."

"I... they will be so terribly angry with me if I tell you," she says, straightening up but still holding a fistful of Merlin's robes. She looks ready to faint.

"Please," Merlin says. "We need to know. It is very brave of you to come to us, and your courage will not be forgotten." He winces at sounding so pompous, aware that he is using her regard for him.

She is swaying, holding on to Merlin's robes and looking at something beyond him, beyond the room. "The curse poisons the mind," she whispers. "It will cause the king to lose himself in darkness." She coughs and her breast heaves, as if she has trouble breathing. "It will take him to the Door... and he will walk through it willingly."

"The Door?" says Gaius sharply, leaning closer. "You mean that the king will die?"

"Yes," the girl gasps. "The king will die. He will have only his dark memories and his guilt, and he will want to die."

"Is there a way to save him?"

"Only... by way of... magic." She is breathing in short gasps now, struggling to speak. "If anyone can save him... Emrys can."

Merlin does not bother to try to deny his magic. After all, she knows it. She has already seen it at work. "But what - "

The girl scrambles to her feet, wild-eyed and clutching at her throat, her mouth open to get air in or words out, Merlin is not sure. When Gaius reaches out a hand towards her, she bats it away and runs for the door.

"No, wait!" Merlin shouts after her as the door is flung open so violently it crashes against the wall. They hear her steps disappear down the corridor. "I need to know more - _wait_!"

But when he reaches the door she is already gone, and he turns to Gaius. "What happened?"

"The Druids are protective of their secrets," Gaius replies slowly. "I hope the poor girl will not pay too dearly for what she did."

They look at each other in silence until Gaius takes a deep breath and says: "Come. We must go back to the king's chambers."

xxx

They dismiss the page boy, who looks tremendously relieved and takes off as if he has suddenly sprouted wings.

"She said I can save him," Merlin says as he stands looking at Arthur, "but I have no idea where to begin." There is an embarrassing little tremor in his voice; he tries to swallow it. "Gaius, what do I need to _do_?"

"I think it is clear _what_ you need to do," Gaius replies, "but I am afraid can't tell you _how_." His fingers close around Arthur's wrist to feel the pulse. "He is lost inside his own mind, the girl said. You must find him and bring him back. You must enter his mind."

Merlin's mouth opens and he stares blankly at Gaius. "Enter his mind," he repeats in a flat voice. "But how...?"

"I am sorry, Merlin," says Gaius heavily. "I truly do not know how."

It is appallingly clear to Merlin in that moment how old Gaius is, how frail. His hands are shaking, his face is deeply lined and his back bent. He does not have the strength to do this. It all falls on Merlin's lot.

"The girl is right," Gaius continues like an echo of Merlin's thoughts. "Only magic can cure Arthur, and my own magic is far too weak for me to take on anything this powerful." He looks at Merlin. "Your intuition has served you well on many occasions, Merlin, and you will have to rely on it now. It is the best we have."

Merlin closes his eyes for a moment. He used to think that things would get easier as he got older, that he would leave the confusion of his younger years and, when he had shaken it off, he would step into adulthood clear-headed and bright-eyed, ready to deal with anything that life decided to throw his way. But instead everything seems to turn more complicated, because as he gets older he begins to see things from other angles besides his own. And here he is now, shouldering a responsibility Gaius can't take on, facing a problem Gaius finds too difficult.

"But I do think," Gaius adds quietly, half turned away, "that this can only be done with the help of love."

Merlin blinks. "I... what?"

"Love," Gaius repeats, straightening up. "You do love Arthur, don't you?"

_Gaius may be old, but he can still see right through me._ Merlin swallows. "I - yes. I mean - I love him as... a friend. As my king."

A true enough answer.

Gaius's piercing look makes Merlin blush, but the old man only says kindly: "Of course, Merlin. But you have followed Arthur through so many hardships and on so many adventures, and you have saved his life on so many occasions that the bond between the two of you is very strong. You are closer to Arthur than anyone and your magic is powerful - it has to be you. Think of the curse; think what it does. What would be the natural antidote?"

Merlin remembers the desperate hate in the woman's voice as she spat out the words to poison Arthur's mind and make him lose himself in darkness. Of course Gaius is right. Of course the antidote is love. Fight magic with magic but hatred with love. And it is not sexual desire Gaius is referring to. This is about selfless love, unselfish magic, true devotion.

Merlin looks at Arthur, at his pallor and the shallow breathing, and for a moment he is blinded by panic. It is not only that Merlin has failed in his duty to protect Arthur and that saving him is his responsibility now – it is the thought of perhaps having to exist without Arthur. That is unbearable, unthinkable.

"What if I can't... what if I don't reach him in time?" His voice cracks and he takes a deep breath. "Is it… Gaius, if I fail - is it possible to bring someone back from the dead?"

"No," says Gaius quietly. "No, not like this. You must catch Arthur before he reaches the Door. Once he passes through it, nothing can bring him back except time itself. Even you with your extraordinary powers can't do that."

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut. He does not understand what Gaius means by "time itself", but that is not important for now. He can't let himself be afraid of failing, he thinks. There is no choice here. Either he tries, or Arthur meets a certain death.

Because why was Merlin given the gift of magic, his strong flaring beautiful magic, if not to save what is most important to him and to Camelot? Arthur will be the greatest king of all time. This is what Merlin's magic was meant for.

He remembers that time by the sea, when they sat facing each other and facing death; how he had been fully prepared to drink down the poison for Arthur and let his life end there and then - if he could only have done so without risk for Arthur. And he remembers his own panic when Arthur had emptied the chalice and slid off his seat, lifeless.

_If Arthur walks through the Door, I will follow him_. But Merlin keeps that resolution to himself. There are some things Gaius does not need to know.

"I think," he says in a surprisingly steady voice, "I think I want to be alone with Arthur. Give me two candle marks, Gaius. If I can't find a way to do it in that time, I don't think I will be able to do it at all."

Gaius looks at him, then nods. Before he leaves the room he briefly puts his hand on Merlin's shoulder, and Merlin is alone with the unconscious king.


	2. Part Two: Flames

PART TWO - FLAMES

_Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly flames everywhere._

At first Merlin does not understand what the noise is, surfacing out of deep sleep as he does. Then he thinks it must be his alarm. But today is Saturday - why would he have set his alarm, and why would he have to get up at this ungodly hour? Outside, dawn is just breaking, and his body is screaming for sleep. He reaches out to fumble around on the bedside table and nearly falls out of bed as he realises his phone is _ringing_, not to wake him but because someone wants to speak to him. He groans as his fingers close around the cold little thing. _Gaius_, the display informs him.

"Hello?" His voice is gravelly with sleep and he clears his throat. "What's up?"

"I am very sorry to wake you up like this, Merlin," Gaius says, and from his tone Merlin can tell something is very wrong, "but it's Arthur. He has been... hurt, and I need you to get here as quickly as you can."

Merlin sits up in bed, rubbing at his head and his eyes and pushing aside his first, rude reaction of "what does that have to do with me?". Instead he says: "Uh, what?", which is not much better.

"Arthur's been hurt," Gaius repeats, sharper now. "You know I would never bother you unless it was absolutely necessary, but you need to wake up. Please go and have a cold shower, a cup of coffee, whatever you need to clear your head, and then get here. I need you to be alert and focused. But be _quick_ about it, Merlin."

"I - I don't understand," Merlin says, because he really does not understand, but he is already out of bed and reaching for his jeans hanging over the back of a chair.

"I will explain when you get here."

"Get where? Where are you?"

"At the Pendragon residence," Gaius says and gives the address.

"Okay," Merlin says and ends the call.

The Pendragon _residence_? Whoever calls their house a residence? A jumble of questions are forming in Merlin's mind, important and trivial ones, but the urgency in Gaius's voice must have got through to Merlin's instincts or his subconscious or something else that has pushed him into action. Before he even knows what he is doing, he has pulled on his jeans, a clean t-shirt and a hoodie and is in his tiny hall lacing up his trainers. As an afterthought he steps into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face and brushes his teeth in a way that leaves the mirror sprayed with toothpaste dots and would make his mother frown.

It is not until he runs out the door that he looks at the time: half past five.

London is never asleep, not even at this hour. Traffic is much less noisy and dense but there is still traffic. Two drunk men are shouting at each other on the corner and a street sweeper comes chugging along the pavement, stirring up a cloud of dust. It is just getting light and the sky is an iridescent, translucent mother-of-pearl with a few scattered, flamingo-pink clouds. If you saw this in a painting you would think the artist exaggerated, Merlin thinks, or had a really bad sense of colour.

The tube trains have just started running for the day. He boards the first one that comes along and sits looking at his bemused mirror image in the dark window, wondering what has happened to Arthur and why Gaius wants Merlin to be there. It sounded, Merlin realises now, as if Gaius needs him to _do_ something. _I need you to be alert and focused._

His mind still feels strangely reluctant, as if his body has acted of its own accord to get here. It's not that he does not care about Arthur, and of course he does not want Arthur to be hurt or injured in any way, but then he never wants that for anyone. The thing is he hardly _knows_ Arthur, and he fails to see what good he could possibly do by Arthur's bedside - or, for that matter, how Gaius could even get that idea into his head.

Arthur and Merlin don't even have that much in common. They are both students, they are about the same age (Arthur is a year older) and they work for Gaius a day or two a week - but that is where any likeness ends.

And despite them working together for nearly a year, Merlin barely knows anything about Arthur. To begin with, he does not understand why Arthur bothers to work at all, particularly with something that pays so badly - because of course Merlin knows who Arthur _is_; everyone does. But it is a fact that the heir of the Pendragon industries and a family fortune the size and scope of which Merlin cannot even grasp has chosen to work in a small shop selling used coursebooks to students. He could be doing it as a charity, but Merlin has a feeling that is not the reason.

When they first met, Merlin was determined to dislike Arthur on sight. As a poor student from Wales who worked to pay his own way through university, tall and lanky and quirky-looking at best, he was not inclined to embrace rich, spoilt daddy's boys who looked like bloody Apollo. But it had turned out to be impossible to dislike Arthur. Merlin could roll his eyes at him, be annoyed with him and give demonstrative, exasperated sighs, but Arthur took it all in good humour, and all in all he was... nice. Likeable. Kind. Not to mention gorgeous without seeming aware of just _how_ gorgeous, which was disarming in itself.

Merlin had wanted to hate Arthur back then, for how _easy_ everything is for him, how he never has to fight for things the way Merlin always has had to, still has to. Arthur had been given everything from the start, money and looks and a good head on his shoulders, and he seems to take it for granted that things should just come to him, naturally and easily, whereas Merlin grits his teeth and hunches his shoulders and struggles.

But behind Arthur's easy banter and grins there is an impenetrable wall, something very guarded that intrigues Merlin. In the year they have known each other, Merlin has never heard anything truly, deeply personal from Arthur. There have been no family anecdotes, very few stories from a party in the weekend, practically nothing about friends or childhood, uni classes or girlfriends, or about his personal life at all. There are precious few things Merlin knows about him, and those are superficial at best: he seems to like red (to judge from his t-shirts), he prefers coffee to tea, he likes to read and is a football fan (Fulham). What Gaius thinks Merlin can do for Arthur now is a mystery.

Thinking about it now, Merlin realises their first meeting was a little strange - or rather, Arthur had acted strangely. He had come into the shop where Gaius had been helping a student find the course book on sociolinguistics that she was looking for, and Merlin had looked up from the box he had been unpacking and blinked. What was Arthur Pendragon doing in a second-hand bookshop - had he spent all his money on horses and fast cars?

"Can I help you?" Merlin had asked as he had tried to look at Arthur sort of sideways not to be blinded.

And Arthur had frozen and stared at Merlin, turning first pale and then red. What that had been all about, Merlin had never considered before. He had noted it at the time but been too preoccupied with his own reaction to wonder about Arthur's. Gaius had introduced them and Arthur had continued to look at Merlin a lot throughout the day, while Merlin had found it necessary, _imperative_, to keep a distance.

Merlin rubs his face with both hands and pushes his fingers through his hair, thankful that he declined Will's offer of pubbing and clubbing last night. Not that he did not want to go, but with six pounds in his wallet and four days to payday it was just not a good idea. He is sure he could get an advance from Gaius if he asked, but he will save that for when he _really_ needs it. Which he hopes will be never.

He gets off the tube to find the address that Gaius gave him. Belgravia is not a part of London that he ever visits. Eaton Square is beautiful, wealthy, grand, impressive - everything that Merlin is not. He walks past a church with a portico that he would have stopped to look at if he had not been a hurry; he glances at the lush little parks and gardens and the blindingly white facades that undoubtedly hide equally blinding apartments and maisonettes. Of course the Pendragons would choose to live here, but he will hate them for it another time - well, not hate them for their choice, but for their money. Now he just wants to find out what has happened to Arthur, and what on earth Merlin is supposed to do about it.

When he rings the doorbell, the door is opened by a... butler, Merlin supposes; at least someone who is obviously a servant of the house. Merlin is shown into the hall and stands looking around at slate floors, chandeliers, oriental rugs and enormous paintings as Gaius comes down the stairs.

"Oh, there you are," Gaius says. "Excellent. Let's go in here for a bit. We need to talk. George, could you get us some coffee, please?"

Merlin trots after him into a small room where Gaius points to an armchair by the fireplace and tells him to sit, as if he is a dog. There is a fire lit even if the morning is not cold. Gaius leans down to stoke it, and neither of them says anything until George has brought the coffee tray and disappeared again. Gaius pours the coffee and hands a cup to Merlin who takes it gingerly, balancing it between his fingers. The blue and white china is so delicate he is afraid it will break.

"What's going on?" he asks Gaius and blows on his coffee, watching the surface ripple.

When the tiny motion spreads towards the edges of the cup, Merlin gets a momentary, strange feeling that the air around them is rippling, too. It does not even last for a second but is undeniably there, as if there is a kind of invisible, viscous membrane around him that he has never been aware of before and now accidentally touched.

Gaius does not seem to notice anything off. He offers Merlin the plate of biscuits and says: "I suspect you have not had breakfast. Get your blood sugar up." He leans back and pushes his glasses up on his forehead. How he manages to make them stay there defies both Merlin's logic and gravity. "I understand that this seems a little strange," Gaius continues, "or more than a little, but I will try to explain. As you know, Arthur and I worked late at the shop last night, and when we were done we decided to reward ourselves with a pint at The Red Dragon. So far, so good. When we left the pub an hour or so later, we were stopped on the corner by a woman. She looked Arthur up and down and said: 'So we meet again.' She stared at him for a moment and then said something that I did not catch; it was fast and seemed to be in a foreign language that I could not identify. Arthur just... crumbled on the pavement. I thought at first that she had stabbed him and been so quick with the blade that I had missed it, and I was so shocked and so busy seeing to him that I did not try to stop her running off. When I looked up she was gone."

Merlin has stopped chewing his biscuit. "What the...?"

"Yes, Merlin, that is indeed the question. To which I have no real answer. But I will venture a guess, or a theory, if you like. I called for an ambulance, obviously; Arthur was brought to the hospital and I went with him. There were no stab wounds, no physical injuries, nothing that the doctors could find to explain why he was unconscious. I called his father and waited with him while Arthur was examined and all kinds of tests were run."

"Uther Pendragon?" Merlin swallows the last of his biscuit; it's like dust in his throat.

"We were friends once, you know," Gaius says, "Uther and I."

"Oh?" Perhaps this explains why Arthur works in Gaius's shop, but it creates a number of new questions, such as why Gaius is no longer friends with Uther and why he is on good terms with Arthur if he fell out with Arthur's dad. But as Gaius is here now, sitting by the fire in Uther Pendragon's house having coffee, at least they must be on speaking terms again.

"That is a long story, better told another time," Gaius says. "But as we sat there by Arthur's bedside, it came to me that we had been in a similar situation before."

Merlin does not understand. He swallows the last of his coffee, places his cup on the small table beside him and looks at Gaius's wise old face. "You and Arthur, you mean? And Uther?"

"No," says Gaius mildly. "Arthur and I... and you."

This is just getting weirder. "Gaius, I don't know what you're talking about. I barely know Arthur. We work together a day a week, that is all, and - "

"I believe we have been in this situation before," Gaius interrupts, "and I ventured a guess as to Arthur's... illness. You may not know this, but I used to be a doctor, and I happen to know the doctor in charge of Arthur at the hospital. I went to talk to her and after she had run some more tests, she agreed with my diagnosis. If you can call it that."

"And what is it? What's wrong with him?"

"He has been cursed," Gaius says.

Merlin stares at him. "Cursed," he repeats. His voice is flat and hard.

"Yes," Gaius says, "and that is why I decided to call you. Arthur needs your help. _We_ need your help."

Merlin opens his mouth to ask what on earth _he_ can do about this, or protest, or perhaps just to gape, but Gaius continues: "I believe you are the only one who can cure him."

Merlin's head is spinning. Gaius is old and has had a shock; that must be the reason for his confused talk about _curses_, of all things. Merlin takes a deep breath. "Gaius, I haven't got the faintest idea what you're talking about. Obviously you had a shock last night. Are you sure you shouldn't be in hospital yourself? I mean, you could..."

"Merlin," Gaius interrupts, "you need to listen to me now. And you need to think, and to answer some questions, no matter how stupid or bewildering or unlikely all this seems."

When Gaius uses that tone, there is only one thing to do: comply. Merlin closes his mouth and nods. It's probably best to let the old man say whatever it is he needs to say.

"Strange things happen around you sometimes, don't they? With you, or with things or people."

This is an unexpected question, one that makes Merlin shudder. Is Gaius asking what Merlin thinks he is asking, and in that case, how can he know...? Merlin's lips are cold when he replies: "Strange things happen around everyone."

"That may be true," Gaius says, "but not this kind of thing. Not _your_ kind of thing, Merlin. Look at that book over there. If I ask you to lift it from the table without touching it, could you do it?"

Merlin turns and stares at the book, a huge, glossy coffee table book that looks as if no one has ever read it. _George probably dusts and polishes it every day_, Merlin thinks, feeling oddly hollow inside. Disconnected. Defenceless. "No, of course not. How could I?"

Gaius smiles a little at that. "You could try."

"I'm not Harry bloody Potter!" Merlin bursts out.

The smile broadens. "No, you are not Harry Potter. You are far more powerful than Harry Potter."

Merlin begins to shake, like he is chilled from the inside out. The book lies there, and he stares at it, and continues to lie there.

"If you just _tried_ a little, Merlin," says Gaius patiently. "Let it flow. Don't block it."

Merlin closes his eyes.

"Perhaps you are right to fear it," he hears Gaius's reassuring voice. "It _is_ potentially dangerous, but it can also be used for good. And for fun, even. You can focus it, you know. I suspect it has only run wild in you before, and that has frightened you, but it can be controlled and directed. Don't be scared, Merlin. Use it."

So Gaius does know, and now there is no way out. Gaius is going to insist. Better get it over with.

Merlin takes a deep breath, still with his eyes closed. He pictures the book and concentrates on finding _it_ inside him, _that_, the frightening thing he never talks about, never mentions to anyone. Then he lets it loose within him, the flow of it, in all its heat and colour and the force that scares him so much. A thud startles him, and when he opens his eyes the book falls to the floor from where it flew up and hit the ceiling. It does not look quite so pristine any more. The cover has been scratched and a corner is no longer a corner.

"How long have you known?" he asks hoarsely.

Gaius's eyes are kind. "Always," he says. "Did you think you were named Merlin for nothing? Try to move the book again. You have not yet got the sense of your magic, how to use it properly. And you never will unless you try. Practice makes perfect."

There, the word is out. _Magic._

"Come now, Merlin. It's not as if you are committing a crime."

"No," says Merlin in a very small and pathetic voice, "I'm just the weirdest person who ever walked the earth. It's fine for Harry Potter. He is fictional, but I am _real_."

"Harry Potter or not, surely you did not think you are the only one in the world with magical abilities? And have you really never explored your powers, to see what you can do?"

Merlin shakes his head. That may seem strange, but the magic has always scared him too much. Like he is a monster, horribly misshapen or disfigured but secretly, inside, where no one can see. Inside, he is unnatural and hideous, carrying around a hidden alien. Sometimes when he dreams he wakes up to find his room in complete disorder, as if a tornado has roared through it; once when he got furious a glass of water exploded next to him. He is just lucky no one but his mother has ever witnessed any of these things. Merlin is twenty-one and has never slept at a friend's place, never shared a room on a school trip, never stayed the night with a boyfriend or let them stay the night. No wonder his relationships never last long enough to even deserve the name.

"Arthur was cursed," Gaius says. He reaches out towards the book with an intensely focused look in his eyes; the book twitches and jerks and finally makes a little skip. Gaius leans back. "Well, that is about the extent of my own powers." He glances at Merlin. "Arthur was released from hospital because there was nothing conventional medicine could do for him. Alice - the doctor I mentioned - knows enough about magic to realise that. If Arthur can be healed, then he needs to be healed by magic, and I do not have enough of it to be of any use."

The air around them ripples again, like water, like an invisible membrane they happened to touch. Merlin looks at Gaius but he still shows no signs of noticing.

"So what kind of curse is it?" Merlin asks cautiously. He does not really want to know; he does not want to be part of this. He is still waiting to wake up, because surely this must be a dream, filled with realistic details but still weird enough to be a dream. "Do you know what it does?"

"If this is the past happening all over again," Gaius says, "then it is a curse that will make Arthur want to die. And eventually he will."

xxx

Merlin follows Gaius up the stairs and along the carpeted corridor to Arthur's room. It is a spacious room with two windows facing a garden; they are level with the canopies of the trees. When Gaius and Merlin enter, a man gets up from a chair by the bed. He is tall with a handsome face, powerful shoulders and hard eyes. Uther Pendragon.

"Gaius," he says by way of greeting.

"Any development?"

"No." The single word is followed by a small, shaky sigh that Merlin would have taken for a sob if the man's face had not been so stony.

"This is Merlin," Gaius says, and Uther starts as if pricked by a needle.

"_Merlin_," he repeats heavily, without holding out his hand or even looking at Merlin. "Is that really necessary?"

"I believe it is, Uther." Gaius's voice is soft and empathic and his hand squeezes Merlin's shoulder reassuringly, but Merlin feels stung. "I don't believe there is another way. A magical illness needs a magical cure, not medical science, however modern and advanced."

Uther turns back to his son, who lies pale and still in the huge bed. He looks at him for a few heartbeats and heaves a sigh before leaning down to kiss Arthur's forehead.

"Very well then," he says. "But remember this is your responsibility, Gaius. On your head it is."

"Oh, yes," Gaius replies heavily. "I am not likely to forget."

When Uther has left the room, Merlin turns to Gaius with something like panic clawing inside his chest. "What is it you want me to do, Gaius? How does Uther Pendragon know I have magic? And why did you talk to him before you talked to me?"

"That is a long story, Merlin, one that goes back a long time, to before either you or Arthur were born - although it does have everything to do with Arthur's birth, or his conception. And if I am right, it goes back to well before that. But we will save that story for later. Right now we have to focus on our current, more pressing problem." Gaius reaches out and touches Arthur's arm. "We have to find him in time, or he will die."

"Find him?" Merlin asks, and sees his own hands tremble. He desperately wishes he could wake up, but he no longer believes he can. This is real and he will have to deal with it. There are people who know about magic, _his_ magic, and here he is, faced with some tremendous unknown task where he will have to use that terrifying force that lives inside him. So he has magic - he only wishes it was powerful enough for him to turn back time. A few hours would be enough, only to before his phone rang this morning. Then he could make this day the sleepy, lazy, uneventful Saturday he had intended it to be, and spend it on the sofa with a couple of films and a gigantic bag of crisps. "He is right here. What do you mean?"

"His body may be here, but Arthur is wandering around inside his own mind," Gaius says. "He will find only his darkest memories until he no longer sees a reason to live. We must find him and bring him back before it is too late, and I am afraid it falls on you to try. You are the only one with the necessary powers, Merlin, and Uther knows this, too. It is a dangerous thing, I admit that, since you are not familiar with using your magic, but it is all we have. You have to find Arthur."

"Inside his mind," Merlin says.

Gaius nods. "Yes, Merlin. Inside his mind."

xxx

When Gaius has left the room - ostensibly to get some water but more, Merlin suspects, to give Merlin time to get himself together - Merlin sits looking at Arthur's motionless form and pale face. He could be sleeping. He could be dead. It feels as if Merlin ought to hold his hand or something, but perhaps he has watched too many films. They always do that in films. Arthur is not family or partner or even really a friend, and you don't sit by a workmate's bed holding his hand...

Merlin reaches out and takes Arthur's hand.

He will just have to ad lib this, he thinks; he will have to trust his instincts. Maybe he will fail, maybe he will not be able to save Arthur, but if he does not even try, Arthur will die for certain.  
Arthur's hand is cool and dry and lifeless in his own, and he turns it around so he can feel the small mountain ridge of Arthur's knuckles resting on his own fingers, and his thumb can gently stroke Arthur's palm. He keeps his gaze on Arthur's face, but there is no flutter of eyelashes or other sign of awareness.

It is not as if Merlin has never wanted to hold Arthur's hand before. They went to the cinema once, and despite the silly film and the thick smell of buttered popcorn that Merlin hates, he felt electric the whole time. They were sitting so close in the dusty darkness, separated only by the armrest; their knees touched accidentally at first but then rested against each other easily. Merlin remembers precisely nothing of the film. He only knows it was supposed to be scary. His entire being was focused on the place where his leg touched Arthur's, and on Arthur's hand dangling from the armrest. Through the entire film he had wanted to move his own hand those three inches that separated it from Arthur's. He never dared.

Here and now, the touch seems to help him focus. When he closes his eyes, he can feel something like a small current travelling from Arthur's hand to his own, and tries to focus his... his _magic_. It has been taboo for so long that he can barely even form the word in his mind, and now he will have to unleash it and try to tame it into something useful.

Merlin takes a deep breath and opens the floodgates. The magic bursts through, powerful and and violent and darkly sparkling, and all of a sudden it feels _so good_, so intensely, fantastically _good_ that he wants to laugh out loud. He has never used drugs but maybe this is what it feels like; maybe he can get his kicks out of his magic. Oh, he has been missing this without even knowing - it's exhilarating, intense, and still so familiar.

Merlin is filled with pure joy as he takes hold of the flow of magic and molds it, changes its dark power into hot, vibrant gold. He directs it towards Arthur as gently as he can but insistently, relentlessly; ordering it to do what he needs it to do.

Inside his head, he calls to Arthur: _Where are you? Tell me where you are. Help me get to you. _He takes deep, slow breaths and focuses on the point where he physically touches Arthur, working the hot, luminous current of magic.

It goes on and on; it seems to last forever. Then he does feel something, a tremor shaking the steady flow of magic, a sharp little chill travelling up his arm... All of a sudden there is a fierce pull, and he is sucked violently into a space so dark and so oppressive that he can't bear it. He fights it, screams, kicks, until he is spat out at the other end of whatever strange tunnel he was in. There is light again, and air to breathe, and Merlin falls from a height with a swooping feeling in his stomach until he finds himself in a very familiar place.


	3. Part Three: Reader of Dreams

PART THREE - READER OF DREAMS

_A trickster and a reader of dreams_

Falling into Arthur's mind, Merlin would have expected to end up somewhere a little more dramatic than the tiny kitchen at the back of Gaius's shop. But that is where he finds himself now, in this memory of Arthur's.

He is not sure what he had expected things to be like, what Arthur's memories and dreams would look like - perhaps that he would see them literally through Arthur's eyes, be _in Arthur's head inside his head_, as it were, but apparently that is not how this works. Instead the memory is sort of played before him like a scene where he is a spectator, although he can sense Arthur's emotions very clearly. And right now he is also watching himself, because Merlin is in this memory, too; another actor on this unusual stage.

It is the strangest thing on earth to watch himself through an _Arthur filter_. When Merlin looks at himself in the mirror or at a photo of himself, all he can see is his imperfections - the messy hair and the slightly-too-long nose, his bony shoulders and the asymmetric smile, as if the corners of his mouth are trying to do different things. But seen through the filter of Arthur's perception, Merlin looks... beautiful.

His heart is beating so hard he can barely hear the conversation, but he remembers this, too. They had worked together for maybe three weeks, Arthur and Merlin, and Merlin had all kinds of problems trying to deny how gorgeous Arthur was and how much Merlin wanted to _touch_ him or just be near him. He did not quite understand why it was so important to keep Arthur at an emotional distance, only that it was. He had been so busy creating walls between the two of them and not allowing Arthur to get an inch closer, that he had been prickly and rude, scoffed at Arthur's jokes and avoided him whenever he could. His face heats when he thinks what a prat he must have been. Probably still is, a bit, where Arthur is concerned.

He watches Arthur pour himself a mug of coffee and turn to Merlin, who is at the small table with his tea and a book. Merlin remembers that morning, how he had been unable to sleep and was bleary and fuzzy-brained and definitely did not look his best, but Arthur does not seem to notice that. Through the Arthur filter, that is not at all how Merlin looks.

"I saw a parked car on my way here," Arthur says. "A Citroën model that is apparently called _Pluriel_."

Merlin looks up from his book a little cautiously, raising an eyebrow. "So?"

"So I thought it was a funny name, and I remembered this colleague of my father's whose surname was Curiel." Arthur is grinning above the rim of his coffee mug.

"And is her Christian name Muriel, by any chance?"

"_His_ name," Arthur replies, "and sadly, no."

"Ariel, then," Merlin suggests, and he never knew that his mouth quirks like that when he is trying not to smile.

"That's a detergent."

"Also a name."

Arthur says gravely: "Muriel and Ariel Curiel in their brand-new Pluriel."

Merlin laughs because he can't help it, screwing his eyes shut to demonstrate how not-really-funny he thinks it is. And this, he remembers now, was the first time he allowed himself to laugh in response to Arthur, to lower his guard just that little bit. He remembers his own reluctant amusement, the flash of exhilaration that they had _connected_, and that Arthur's eyes were so blue Merlin had to blink. He also remembers the stab of fear - he was not supposed to let this happen. Standing here now and watching the whole scene, he can sense Arthur's reaction equally clearly - the warmth at the pit of his stomach at the sound of Merlin's laugh, the delight at getting _through_ to Merlin.

Still shaken by this small, trivial moment that had apparently been of significance for them both, Merlin turns around and finds himself on a slope with his feet in thick, wet grass.

Cautiously he looks around. He can hear a stream at the bottom of the hill but not see it, hidden as it is by a screen of trees. From further away come the silver-clear notes of a blackbird, and from the light and the dew in the grass he can tell it is early morning. The air is sweet with the fragrance of new leaves, of things in bloom.

Merlin heads down the slope, walking towards the sound of voices by the stream. Half-hidden behind the trunk of a majestic tree he stops and draws a breath as morning light dances golden-green and dappled over the two laughing, shouting, naked boys in the water.

Arthur is fourteen, perhaps, with a face that carries a promise of beauty that has yet to be fulfilled. His colouring is the same as it is now, that gorgeous blond hair and golden skin. His voice has recently broken but his shoulders have not yet broadened. The other boy is not a boy so much as a young man, around eighteen, Merlin guesses, with a short, thickset body and powerful shoulders. Arthur splashes him and is promptly dunked; both of them spit and laugh as they try to get the best of the other, shouting as they run up on the bank of the stream and then back into the water. Arthur looks like a half-grown puppy; his hands and feet seem too large for his body. He is happy, Merlin can sense this, but the happiness has a strong undercurrent of sadness.

When he calls the other young man Kay, Merlin sputters. It is ridiculous, really - here is an Arthur, a Kay and a Merlin - just like _The Sword in the Stone_ that he loved watching as a kid. They are only missing Sir Hector.

"Come on, time to get back," Kay says. He runs up to the pile of their clothes and rummages around in it, throws Arthur's shirt at him. "We don't want to miss breakfast."

Merlin watches them get dressed, quickly and haphazardly, and the clothes puzzle him. They look odd and sort of medieval, tunics and breeches like... like in _The Sword in the Stone_. But there is no time to reflect; the memory stops here and he finds himself in another.

Merlin blinks against the light where he stands on a sandy beach with lazy waves coming in to lap at his feet and pull back, leaving a lacy pattern in the sand. It is a gloriously sunny day with seagulls crying overhead and children shouting with joy.

Arthur is even younger in this memory, about six years old, in red swimming trunks and with bright orange, inflatable floats like clumsy wings on his thin little arms. Uther is standing waist-deep in the glittering sea, laughing. He takes Arthur's hands and spins around, swinging Arthur in a whooshing circle through the water, making the boy shriek with delight.

"More, more!"

"Me too, daddy! Me too!" A little girl is wading out towards them. She is a little older than Arthur, a year or two perhaps, and strikingly pretty with long black hair and green eyes.

"Of course you too, Morgana," Uther calls to her. "Come here!"

She tries to run towards them but the water makes her movements slow. Uther pulls her towards him with one hand and swings both children around together.

This is one of Arthur's happiest memories, Merlin realises; a happiness that is strong and pure and completely unmarred, filled with love for both his father and the girl, who must be his sister. Merlin has never heard Arthur mention a sister.

Once again the scene changes abruptly. This time Merlin is standing just inside the doors of a long hall with beautiful high windows and a honey-coloured wood floor. At the other end of the hall is a group of men, deep in discussion. They are all clad in red cloaks that look a bit ridiculous, and Merlin can't help wondering what this is. A secret order, perhaps. Freemasons, or something equally weird. The air smells of woodsmoke and something else that he can't identify, something dusty.

He wants to hear what they are talking about and approaches the men carefully, almost on tiptoe although he knows they can't see or hear him. One of them turns away from the group to reach for a roll of paper on a table - no, not paper, it looks more like parchment, and the man wears chainmail under his cloak. _Roleplay?_ Merlin wonders. He has no idea if Arthur does that sort of thing - but then Arthur never talks about anything personal. Just then, two of the men bow and turn to leave the room, brushing past Merlin as they go and giving him a glimpse of what the group is gathered around - and whom.

There is an ornate chair of dark wood - a _throne_ - and on it is Arthur with his chin in his hand, listening intently and with a furrow between his eyebrows. They are discussing war strategies, Merlin hears. Horses, footmen, provisions. This can't be a memory, he thinks. It must be a dream, a fantasy. Perhaps Arthur is one of those people who believe they have lived previous lives. And Merlin wants to laugh, because of course Arthur could not be just anyone - it had to be _King Arthur_. Everyone was always someone grand and famous in their previous life, like Cleopatra or Mary Queen of Scots, never a shoemaker or a factory worker or a farmer's wife.

Then he does laugh, but it comes out like a weak giggle and he realises how exhausted he is. The image of Arthur and the soldiers - or knights, yes, of course they must be knights - begins to blur before his eyes, wavering in and out. He blinks and shakes himself but his magic is beginning to falter; he is not used to taming it like this or even using it. With a groan he falls to his knees on the wood floor as the voices of the men grow fainter. Images flicker before him, memories, dreams, he does not know, does not even know to whom the images belong, Arthur or himself. He tries desperately to focus, not to lose his grip on the magic, but he can't hold on to it, can't...

The light changes around him, and when he opens his eyes he is back in Arthur's room in Belgravia, so tired he slips out of the chair to the floor. He just sits there leaning his head against the side of the bed, not looking up. When Gaius comes in a few minutes later, Merlin only sees his feet.

"I'm sorry, Gaius," he says in to the floor in a small, defeated voice. "I couldn't focus. I'm so tired."

Gaius helps him up on the chair, leaning down as if to examine him. He turns Merlin's head first to one side and then the other, looks at his eyes and takes his pulse.

"You are exhausted and no wonder," he says, "and that is more than partly my fault. I should have let you have proper breakfast, at least. Can you stand up? Good. Come, I will ask George to get us something to eat."

They sit at a dining table so well polished it could do duty as a mirror, and George brings them a cooked breakfast as good as any Merlin has ever had, even counting his mother's. While Merlin eats he glances at George who looks very prim, his back straight and his chin so high that Merlin is sorely tempted to poke at him to see if he'd keel over like a cardboard cutout. He stands by the door for a few minutes before excusing himself to go and polish the brass.

"Is that a euphemism for something?" Merlin whispers to Gaius, who laughs out loud.

"Very possibly, Merlin. I would not want to speculate. Are you ready to for another try?"

What Merlin would really like to do is sleep, but there is no time. He finishes his tea and nods.

"But, Gaius," he says, "I don't know how to _do it_. I mean, I could figure out how to get inside Arthur's mind - that worked. But once I'm in there it's just a jumble. I have no idea how to _find_ Arthur in all those memories. I kept just being moved around from one memory to another, completely randomly. I have no idea how to... to navigate. I'd need some sort of map."

"Well," Gaius says, "I don't know either, but I believe you must go to his darkest memories. That is where he will be. How to find them is another matter."

xxx

Getting inside Arthur's mind is a quicker and smoother process this time, but when Merlin realises where he has ended up and what the scene before him is, he freezes.

"Oh, no," he says out loud, "no no _no_."

Of all the memories he does not want to run into, a wank memory has to top the list. Or, well, he is not sure whether that is better or worse than a memory of Arthur having sex with someone. He should get out, he thinks, because what kind of lousy ethics is it to stay and watch an intensely private moment like that? But he does stay, because he can't take his eyes off Arthur nearly naked on the bed.

It is Arthur's bedroom in Belgravia, the one Merlin just left, and it must be a recent memory because Merlin recognises Arthur's t-shirt. It has been pushed up to just above his nipples and his pants have been pushed down his thighs, and Merlin _tries_ not to look at the space between, he honestly does try, but fails spectacularly. Instead he stares, mesmerised, at Arthur's loose fist moving slowly, lazily, up and down his cock. Merlin whimpers.

A hazy image appears next to the bed, shifting and gradually becoming clearer. A naked Arthur is entangled with another man, pushing him against the wall and kissing him deeply. When his mouth moves down the other man's throat and the man's face becomes visible as his head falls back with a thud, Merlin stuffs his knuckles in his mouth and bites - because the other man is Merlin.

The hazy image has to be a fantasy, then, Merlin thinks wildly, because however badly he may have wished it at times, he has never had sex with Arthur or even so much as touched him before sitting by his bedside and holding his hand today. The fact that Arthur has _fantasised_ about Merlin makes him dizzy. Still with his knuckles in his mouth, he watches Arthur in the fantasy drop to his knees, hold Merlin's hips and nuzzle his stomach, while Merlin pushes his fingers into Arthur's hair, hips bucking, mouth open and eyes closed. Merlin's body in the fantasy is a little blurred and kind of sketchy, and Merlin thinks this must be because Arthur has never seen him naked and has to make up his own image. He is not far off the mark. Shoulders, hips and arms are pretty accurate, even his cock is. But Merlin is _hairier_ in real life than he is in Arthur's fantasy, and oh fuck, if Arthur wants him to be as smooth and hairless as he is in this fantasy, Arthur is going to be so disappointed if they ever...

On the bed, Arthur's hand speeds up and he moans, slipping two fingers into his mouth. Oh god, is he going to...? Merlin's face is hot and he is so hard it aches, pressing a hand desperately to his groin. He must leave, he thinks; he can't waste time _watching mind porn_ when he needs to save Arthur's life. He is breathing fast, and just then Arthur on the bed comes as Arthur in the fantasy takes Merlin's cock in his mouth, and Merlin who is watching whimpers and closes his eyes.

_Focus, focus, focus,_ he thinks, trying desperately to erase the image of Arthur coming. He presses his hands over his eyes until he sees red and purple splotches floating and exploding behind his eyelids. He counts slowly to fifty and from fifty back down to zero; he thinks of dull things until he can breathe normally again. _Focus._ He needs a strategy. _Find the dark memories._

His magic helps him. Now that Merlin has calmed down he finds he can take hold of his magic again, direct it, command it. When he visualises what he needs, his magic accommodates him to create a kind of map. It takes some effort, but after a while there is a landscape-like image before him, with a strange topography and luminous, coloured fields that bleed into each other. There is also a glittering trace of something, a faint meandering path extending slowly across the map. He doesn't know what it is, but his instincts tell him to start at the beginning of it. Merlin closes his eyes.

When he opens them again he is in the middle of chaos, surrounded by bodies and metal and horses' legs, hooves spitting up clods of mud, swords clanging. A game, Merlin thinks; obviously this is some game Arthur has played. But as Merlin strains his eyes to make some sort of sense of this mess, Arthur's emotions come washing over him. Fear and anger, intense focus, pain - the force of it nearly knocks him over. This can't possibly be a game or a dream. This is _real_.

At first Merlin can't spot Arthur in the heaving sea of horses and fighting men. When he does, he simply stares like an idiot without understanding, without understanding anything. Because this is not quite the Arthur he knows, but an _older_, more powerful Arthur, another ten or fifteen years added to his current age, with a strong face and hard features and a scar down his cheek. _No, it's not possible_, Merlin thinks, _it's not possible to remember yourself older._

Arthur is in armour but without a helmet. His hair shimmers under the pale sky, and he is bellowing orders to his men in a voice that tolerates no contradiction. It is a voice accustomed to giving orders and not being opposed. His sword dances in his hands, flashing in the weak sun, and sends a shudder through Merlin head to foot. Without a doubt, this is the Arthur Pendragon of old; this is King Arthur of legend. _And Arthur remembers it._

Dizzy and sick with the realisation, with the billowing battle before him and with Arthur's pain, Merlin wonders whether Arthur - _his_ Arthur - is aware of his memories, if he _knows_ all this, or if these are memories he does not even know he has, buried deep down.

The Arthur before Merlin on the battlefield is wounded. There is a nasty gash in his left arm, the blood is flowing and discolouring chainmail and vambrace - Merlin is familiar with armour from when he was obsessed with action-figure knights and horses when he was ten.

"Gwaine!" Arthur shouts through the terrifying clamour of crashing metal, groans and screams, of whinnying horses and the sickening thuds of sword on shield. "Are you holding up?"

A man whose handsome features can't be denied by the grime on his face gives Arthur a tired grin. "Of course I am, Sire," he shouts back. "You know me better than to think otherwise."

The "Sire" comes with a touch of irony but no disrespect. Arthur shakes his head before he whips around, neatly wards off an attacker and pierces him with the sword. When the attacker falls heavily to the ground by Arthur's feet, the entire battle comes to a halt, stillness spreading like a wave from Arthur towards the edges of the field. There is an order from Arthur, he lifts his hand, and the field is silent apart from the groaning of the wounded and the clink and jingle of armour and bridles. The men who are still on their feet are giving each other exhausted nods.

Arthur wipes sweat from his face, leaving a swathe of dirt in the wake of his hand as he looks out over the field assessing the destruction.

"Ten men, Leon," he says to a tall knight who is walking up to him. "Bring them to Camelot as prisoners but treat them well. _Treat them well._"

"Yes, Sire."

The knight has kind eyes; Merlin has no doubt he will follow Arthur's orders.

Suddenly Arthur's expression changes, and he stares right past where Merlin is standing as if he has just spotted something important. There is a strange mixture of emotions in his face - wariness, tension, preceded by a brief moment of joy. Merlin turns around to see what it is that triggers this complex reaction in Arthur, and looks straight at - himself.

There is no doubt it is him. This Merlin is older, too - above all, his eyes - but he still looks pretty much like he does now apart from the way he is dressed. He is in chainmail and leather, and he is not pleased. At his arrival, a wave of whispers passes through the field like a gust of wind and the sea of men parts to make way for him.

"Merlin," says Arthur stiffly. The name falls like a rock between them.

"I wish you would let me help," the older Merlin says. His voice is calm but there is anger underneath. "We could have resolved this in no time and spared many lives. I wish you would."

"And by resolved you mean complete destruction on _their_ side," Arthur replies, "and lives spared only on ours."

Merlin can tell this is an old argument between them.

"You are hurt, Sire," the older Merlin observes. "Let me take you back. And next time, I can't promise I will listen."

"I know you only follow my orders for as long as you please," Arthur replies curtly. "No need to remind me. We will see what happens when that day comes."

"When you are next attacked by magic, you will be grateful for my help, that is what will happen."

He ducks under Arthur's unhurt arm and slings an arm around Arthur's waist to support him.

"And _walk_ me back, Merlin," says Arthur furiously. "Don't - don't _fly_ or anything stupid like that."

And that, at last, calls forth a smile on the older Merlin's face as they begin to weave their laborious way across the muddy field towards the castle in the distance.

xxx

Merlin remains where he is with Arthur's memories floating and whirling around him, like an isle in a fast-flowing stream. He is surrounded by them on all sides, they are above him, under him, and he feels dizzy and sick and a little frightened. Because things are moving inside his own mind, too; there are memories pushing and fighting for space, waking up from where they have been lying dormant.

Merlin squeezes his eyes shut and presses his palms to his temples, trying to hold his head together. It feels like it's going to explode, like a dam is about to burst - and the dam does burst. Cascades, rivers break their confines and come rushing through him; the sheer force of them making him groan. For a moment he thinks he is going to die, buried under them, suffocated, crushed.

Because Merlin _remembers_.

He does not die. He stays where he is, holding his poor head while the memories slow down enough to let him focus, until he can see what they are.

Yes, he had been there that day, on the battlefield that he just saw in Arthur's mind. These are undeniably his own memories, because there are things Arthur can't possibly know. Merlin remembers standing at the edge of the woods watching the battle rage and roar in the field before him, listening to the screams and thuds and the crashing metal, the screams and groans of wounded men and terrified horses. Well out of vision of the fighting men he had stood in the deep shade under the trees and watched Arthur's every move, ready to act if there was immediate danger. And when it was over Merlin had made his way through the field among the fallen and the injured to get to Arthur, light-headed with relief that Arthur was alive and not badly hurt, to take him back to the castle and to have yet another fruitless discussion about the use of magic.

_We have known each other before._ It is an absurd thought, as absurd as it is to find out that he is not only named after the mythical wizard Merlin, he _is_ Merlin, _that_ Merlin. And Arthur, economics student and bookshop assistant Arthur, is the king of legend.

_I should laugh_, Merlin thinks. _I should shrug this off and wave it aside as stupid fantasies._ But he can't do that, because he knows with every fibre of his being that this is the truth. It happened.

Everything comes tumbling back now. He remembers growing up in Ealdor; remembers coming to Camelot as a young boy and meeting Arthur, the prattish prince, and how they got to be friends. He remembers witnessing king Uther burning people at the stake on the mere, unfounded suspicion that they were sorcerers. He remembers his own grudging, reluctant admiration for Arthur's courage, and later his conviction that Arthur would be a truly great king.

And he remembers riding out with Arthur early one morning, meeting a woman who spat on the ground in front of Arthur before she cursed him... _I killed her_, Merlin thinks, fighting a wave of nausea.

_We have been in this situation before_, Gaius had said, and he was right.

Merlin remembers taking Arthur back to the castle, remembers the Druid girl, remembers entering Arthur's mind... He had succeeded that time. He had saved Arthur's life; he had found his king and brought him back before he had gone through the Door, but that had been the beginning of the end, because Merlin had had to reveal his magic.

Tears are burning Merlin's eyes. There had been too many revelations that day, revelations that neither of them could handle. Finding his way through Arthur's mind, he had seen things he should not have seen, just as he had today - private, forbidden - and he had confessed things that ought to have stayed inside his own mind. They had both allowed things to happen that should never have happened.

Ever since, Arthur had been remote. Merlin had kept his seat at the Round Table and Arthur had continued to seek his advice in important political matters, and often followed it, too. But Arthur had begun to avoid Merlin's eyes. Merlin had not been sure what had upset Arthur the most - what had happened between them, or the fact that Merlin is a warlock, or his deceit in keeping his magic a secret for so long. He had tried not to be hurt by it, because had he not still been one of Arthur's advisors despite having magic? Some people had even referred to him as Arthur's Court Sorcerer, but that had been taking things much too far. Merlin had simply been a court advisor who had also happened to be a sorcerer.

Arthur and Merlin had had many heated discussions about the use of magic in war, and Arthur had been reluctant to make use of Merlin's powers. But there had come a time when he had had no choice, and instead of just being the king's counsel, Merlin had turned himself into the most dangerous weapon in Arthur's arsenal. He had done so willingly.

The tears burning Merlin's eyes are threatening to spill over now as he recalls the look on Arthur's face that first time that Merlin had let his magic burst forth to create devastation. Arthur had watched in silence as trees were pulled out of the earth as easily as weeds and twisted into knots. He had watched fire and water tamed and used for destruction. He had watched as the earth shook and opened up to swallow the enemy armies, watched mountains crumble into rocks and boulders. Merlin had killed thousands of men with a wave of his hand, and Arthur had watched him do it.

After that, there had been no return. Arthur had ceased to see Merlin as a man and come to regard him as a monster, a creature that was no longer human but created by magic and consisting only of magic - wild, dangerous, unstoppable. He had found magic useful but repulsive, and Merlin _was_ magic. Even if Arthur had not been afraid for his own sake or even for Gwen or the people of Albion, he _had_ been afraid.

Merlin sits down right where he is, surrounded by the rush and flow of Arthur's memories but focusing only on a memory of his own, cringing under the weight of it. Under the shame.

xxx

Lately Merlin has been thinking about Freya, of what could have been _if only_ or _if not_. Everyone he ever loves is taken away from him. In a way, Arthur has been taken from him, too - or rather, he has removed himself from Merlin by his own choice, which is even worse. Arthur certainly never used to be polite to Merlin before, but these days he is very formal. It hurts.

Merlin can't help watching Arthur with Gwen and compare. He notes how Arthur talks to her, looks at her, guides her into the room with a hand around her elbow or at the small of her back. There is closeness there, and tenderness - in his eyes, his gestures, his gentle teasing. It all speaks of his feelings for her. There is no doubt he loves her deeply.

_So what about me_, Merlin thinks. _Where do I stand?_ He is kept at arm's length, or on the other side of the table or the room or even the door. Arthur's expression when he looks at Merlin is one Merlin can't read. He can't tell whether it is distaste, irritation, or even fear that makes Arthur close himself up so completely where Merlin is concerned.

He has asked, because he does not like leaving things like this to fester, but Arthur only replied curtly: "You're seeing things that don't exist, Merlin."

Which is a blatant lie.

Merlin is feeling increasingly lonely in Camelot. Gaius is so old now that he mostly sleeps, and when he does not, he sits watching the birds that come to feed on the breadcrumbs and seeds he sprinkles on his windowsill. Merlin has no one to talk to, not even Gwen, who has many duties. Perhaps Arthur has asked her not to spend too much time with Merlin. Sometimes she has an apologetic look that suggests it. Gwen has never been good at hiding things.

This is why Merlin has been thinking about Freya. With her, there had been a connection that had been immediate if not exactly easy. They had both been lonely and recognised the loneliness in each other; they had both been scared and angry and vulnerable. Merlin had done his best to protect her then, and had taken her to the lake when she had asked him to. Perhaps if he goes to the lake she will come to him, if he summons her. Perhaps she can tell him what to do. And if she can't do that, at least she will listen. He will go and see her. But first there is someone else he needs to see.

xxx

He waits until evening, when darkness provides a cover, and slips out of the castle unseen. The moon is bright and washes the clearing with silver, making them visible to anyone coming through the woods, but Merlin has chosen carefully. No one will come. No one ever does.

"Kilgharrah!" he calls.

His dragonlord voice has never ceased to astonish him; the roar that his thin frame can produce. As if he is not himself but somehow more than himself. Before long, he hears the beating of enormous wings and the dragon lands in the dewy grass before him.

"Young warlock," Kilgharrah says by way of greeting, and even after all this time Merlin never knows if the dragon is pleased or annoyed to be called. "You summoned me."

He looks old, Merlin reflects, which is a ridiculous thing to think about a creature so ancient. But he looks as if - as if his time is running out.

"Thank you for coming," Merlin says out loud. "I called you because I need your advice." He takes a breath and decides that honesty must be his choice. "I don't know what to do. I feel as if I don't belong any more. Arthur does not want to... does not want to listen. I am supposed to be his advisor, but..."

"He does ask your advice," the dragon points out surprisingly mildly.

"Yes, he asks, and then he turns away. He does not want me close any more. There is no place for me here. I am beginning to think that... that it is time for me to leave."

Kilgharrah lowers his head and looks at Merlin with something resembling pity. "You cannot escape that which is meant to happen, young warlock. I have said this many times."

"I am not young any more," Merlin replies. "And you are always cryptical. I should have known better than to ask you. If I command you to speak clearly, you would have to tell me what your riddles mean, would you not?"

"Perhaps," Kilgharrah says airily. "But it would offer you no clearer guidance. You humans, your thoughts are so small and your interpretations so limited."

Only a few years ago, Merlin would probably have tried to make the dragon explain. Now he only nods. He will never see Kilgharrah again, he is sure of that, and he believes the dragon knows it, too.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

There is a moment of silence. "There is no future for us, you know," Kilgharrah says. "For the dragons."

"And for us warlocks? Is there a future for us?"

"Humans will always stay the same," Kilgharrah replies. "And with that, I believe we must part. Farewell, Merlin, last of the dragonlords. And remember that if things do not find their resolution here, perhaps they will in another time or place when you least expect it."

Merlin reaches up to touch Kilgharrah's nose like a caress, and the old dragon lowers his head and closes his eyes, allowing it. The scales are warm and ridged under Merlin's hand.

"Farewell, Kilgharrah, and thank you."

The moon is blotted out by enormous wings, and then the sky is still.

xxx

Merlin takes the path towards the lake, walking slowly and trailing his hand along the ferns, pulling off the fronds here and there and scattering them like a trail of green crumbs behind him. It is a soft day, balmy and overcast with the haze of summer painting the distant mountains blue. By the lake he stands watching the dark, mirror-still surface and thinks about the time he pulled Arthur out of the water, heavy in his drenched clothes and waterlogged armour; thinks about Freya dying in his arms, about sending her out on the lake in the boat, feeling like his heart is being wrenched out of him. And her arm ascending, offering him Excalibur.

Merlin should cry, he thinks. He ought to. He misses her, but his eyes are so dry they burn.

"Freya," he says out loud. He does not want to summon her with magic although he knows he could; he only wants to call her name and she can come to him if she chooses to. "I don't know what to do," he adds miserably.

Then he waits. But the water is as still as before; nothing happens.

Merlin sits down slowly on a rock by the water's edge, breaks off a reed and dips it in the water, draws a pattern on the surface and watches the ripples spread. There is a faint whisper of wind in the treetops, and somewhere behind him an upset nuthatch is warning him off. He does not move.

Suddenly a breeze moves the reeds like a sigh, and there is the suck and slosh of water parting. Merlin looks around, unable to locate the source of the sound. The lake surface is as still and mirror-like as before. He stands up, shading his eyes with a hand. The sound stops abruptly.

"Freya?" he whispers without knowing why he is whispering.

In the distance, the mountains are blue and imposing. The nuthatch has stopped calling. There is a moment of absolute silence when everything is huge and Merlin very small.

Then Freya's voice is behind him: "Merlin."

He whips around, nearly falling into the water as he does so, and there she is. She is beautiful, sad, and much younger than he; as young as they both were when they met. So long ago. It feels like a lifetime. Merlin thinks about the crow's feet at the corners of Arthur's eyes, at the sharpness of his handsome features where nothing is left of the softness of youth, the years that weigh down his shoulders and show in his eyes. Merlin's throat constricts.

"You wanted me," Freya says quietly.

He is not sure in what way she means that, or whether she means back then or just now, and he draws a shaky breath. "Yes."

It is true both for then and now, in slightly different ways. He had wanted her physically then, and perhaps he does still - if she should offer him that now, he might take her up on her offer. Loneliness is a heavy burden, making his body tense.

"What is it, Merlin?" she asks softly. "You are troubled. What can I do to help?"

"Why did you come?" he asks in return, looking into her eyes where he sees neither fire nor spark, only the darkest depth.

"You called me. I knew something was wrong."

Merlin sighs. "Yes," he says. "Everything." Then he straightens his back, squares his shoulders. "And nothing." He smiles. "All is well, really. I just feel so lonely; I've felt lonely for a long time. And a bit pushed aside. Ignored."

"But Arthur does not ignore your advice." Something about the way she says Arthur's name makes the smallest shiver of apprehension run down Merlin's spine. He shakes it off.

"No," he admits. "He does not. He listens, but then he shuts the door."

"He is still no friend of magic," Freya says. "And he is hurt that you lied to him."

"I did not lie!"

"That you hid things from him, then. And you frighten him."

"Frighten him?" Merlin looks up. "What on earth does he have to be afraid of? He should know by now that he has nothing to fear from me, ever."

Freya smiles then. "But he _is_ afraid of you, Merlin. Don't you see that? He is afraid of what you can do, with magic or without it. What you could do to him if you chose to."

"But that is the whole point, Freya," says Merlin heatedly. "That I _don't_ choose to. I never have, I never will. I am on his side whole-heartedly, I am his..." He wants to say "I am _his_", pure and simple, but he can't. "I am his servant. My magic is at his command; he ought to know that by now. If he has not realised that yet..."

"Still," Freya persists. "You do have tremendous power, Merlin. Unfathomable to him. You could do anything you wanted to, _anything_, good or bad. And even without your magic, you could expose him."

When Merlin opens his mouth to ask why, or what, or how, he realises what she is referring to and stops himself.

"Yes," she says softly. "He does love you. He never stopped, I am sure of it."

Merlin's face heats.

"And you love him, too; that is plain to see - at least for those who know you. Those who know what to look for in your face and in your eyes. You love him, and you are hurt."

Merlin does not even bother to deny it. "Freya, what should I do?" he asks helplessly.

"For now," she whispers and reaches out to touch his face, "you should relax. Let me help you. Let me distract you for a little while. Let us have what we both wanted all those years ago."

Merlin starts and Freya laughs a little at his bafflement. There is a light in her eyes that he does not know from the old Freya, something glinting in the dark depths. Heat.

"I want this," she says. "And so do you. Don't try to deny it, Merlin."

He shakes his head slowly. "I won't deny it."

This is not right, he thinks. He should not even be considering it. But at her words, the whole unbearable loneliness of Camelot washed in over him and he can think of nothing but how wonderful it would be to just let himself be _touched_. He has been so lonely for so long, without a real connection to anyone.

So when Freya takes a step forward he pulls her close, closing his eyes and pushing away all thoughts as he leans down to kiss her. She is soft and pliable in his arms, solid enough, but something about her is volatile, unreal. He feels magic surround her like a buzz of heat and it makes him desire her; he lets his mouth slide down the side of her neck and she sighs in his arms, sneaking her hands up under his tunic, running them over his bare skin.

"There is a patch of soft grass over there by the tree," she whispers. "Shall we...?"

Merlin does not let himself consider the strangeness of the situation, the unreality of it; he only wants to be able to forget everything just once, just for a few minutes, and lose himself in someone he loves. Freya wraps her legs around his hips and he carries her over to the tree, with her back to it. Her fingers are in his hair and his heart is beating fast as he opens her tunic so he can touch her bare breasts. She moans softly and slides off him, turning them around so it is Merlin with his back to the tree, and his breath hitches in his throat when she drops to her knees in front of him.

When she looks up at him he sees something in her face that makes warning bells go off in his head, but it is already too late. There is a flash of gold and suddenly she is not Freya at all; she is someone he had never expected to see again in his life. She is Nimueh with her cobalt blue eyes and cold smile, and her mouth forms a spell, a chain of ancient words Merlin does not know.

He hears himself shout but she is too strong; there is nothing he can do. The tree opens behind him and he is pulled inside. Wood and bark close around him, locking him in. He is surrounded on all sides by a moist, green darkness, imprisoned in tough fibre and layers of ancient magic. Outside he hears Nimueh laugh with soft, false sweetness.

"I swore I would have my revenge," she calls to him. "I knew I would. And so did you, Merlin, because I know you foresaw this; you saw your own death and how it would come to pass. And still, here you are - trapped in the tree as it was predicted."

"I thought I had killed you!" he shouts back at her, furious, ashamed, frightened. "It can't end here! I will not let it!"

He sounds like a child. Arthur needs me, he wants to add, but that is both pathetic and a lie. Arthur does not need Merlin and has not needed him for a long time.

Nimueh's laugh has turned triumphant. "Not everything is what it seems," she calls. "I thought you had learnt that, but it seems you have learned nothing. Goodbye, Merlin! Sleep well! And may we never meet again."

Merlin struggles, fights the tree and Nimueh's magic, trying to break her spells any way he can, but they are tightly wrapped around him like a luminous mesh, undisturbed by Merlin's words or his power. And Nimueh is right, he thinks bitterly; he did foresee his own death. He did see himself trapped in a tree.

His magic has no effect on hers. It is like battling a giant. Nimueh is too old, too strong, too resourceful; the spell is too complex and Merlin can already feel his mind numbing, changing. His thoughts are slowing and his limbs growing heavy; human words are trickling out of his mind one by one. Soon he will be dead, soon he will be one with the tree.

_Arthur_, he thinks, because he wants to keep that word, keep it in his mind, in his mouth, in his ears. _Arthur_.

There is no point trying to resist. There is no changing his fate. This is the end for him and he knows it. Yes, this is the end for Merlin, the sorcerer at King Arthur's court at Camelot. He will not be there the moment when Arthur will need him most; he will not be there to defend his king when it matters most. But at least Arthur's death will be less shameful than his own. At least Arthur will not die by his own stupidity.

Merlin's thoughts are growing dim and vague, and soon they will be gone. _But there will be light again_, he thinks. _Some time, somewhere, there will be light and life again. I must have patience. It is waiting for me._

And Merlin resigns. He takes one last deep breath before he stretches his arms above his head to let them become branches and his hands twigs, one last breath before he turns his face up and closes his eyes, one last breath before he lets Nimueh's magic take him and make him one with the tree.

xxx

Shaking, Merlin gets to his feet and wipes the tears from his face. He rubs his hand down his arms and slaps his cheeks with his palms until they sting. He _remembers his own death_. This is not normal, none of this is normal, but he is wasting time. He can't let himself drown in his own memories. Arthur is in danger and Merlin must try to save him, like he has done so many times before, whatever the consequences. But perhaps his own memories can help him locate Arthur. They have enough dark memories in common.

It comes to him then, the last memory he had visited before he found Arthur last time. It is a memory that haunted Arthur then, tortured him, and if he does remember his past life now, Merlin is sure it must pain him still. That is where Merlin needs to go.

"Take me to the Druid camp," he whispers.


	4. Part Four: Darkness

PART FOUR - DARKNESS

_All the rooms of the castle except this one, says someone, and suddenly darkness,__  
__ suddenly only darkness._

When Arthur steps out from the pub with Gaius, the rain has stopped and the stars are peeking out between rags of cloud. He feels relaxed after a couple of beers and more than ready to go home and sleep. He walks Gaius to the corner of the pub where they stop to say good night. The old man lives in the flat above his shop and they can see the door from where they are standing.

"See you tomorrow, then," Arthur is saying when the woman appears out of nowhere.

She is middle-aged and small; her face is in shadow as she stands with her back to the window. Inside, there is the sound of glass breaking on the floor and a surge of laughing and cheering. The woman does not seem to notice. She is staring up at Arthur's face.

"So," she says, and there is an unmistakable, smug smile in her voice, "we meet again."

She lifts her hand and utters words in a language Arthur does not understand, and then there is silence and darkness.

xxx

It is still dark when Arthur opens his eyes - a darkness that is damp and compact without so much as a sliver or shimmer of light. He stands still for a while, trying to get a sense of where he is. When he stretches out a hand, his fingers meet only air, but something about this place feels familiar. As if he has been here before. Cautiously he moves forward, step by step with his hand stretched out in front of him. There is a cavernous feel to the place and the floor is uneven. When his fingertips touch a cold, rough wall, the wall blinks to life around him as if he just flipped a switch. As if it was only waiting for his touch.

He surrounded by luminous images, like hundreds of small film screens all showing a different film. Some of them are clear, some hazy, but all of them very familiar.

"Unbelievable," Arthur says out loud.

_So we meet again_, the woman had said before she had lifted her hand and cursed him, and they have indeed met before.

"Unbelievable," Arthur repeats. "She even used the same curse."

With some refinement though, he reflects, because he is not physically hurt this time.

_Last time._

Insane. This whole thing is insane, Arthur thinks and rubs his head. Because there was a _last time_, in another life - a life that Arthur remembers and the woman must too. One person after another from Arthur's previous life has appeared in this one, but until now he has never met anyone else who seems to remember. When he finally meets another person who does, it has to be someone who cursed him? Arthur shakes his head and laughs a little, because there is nothing else he can do.

Or is there?

He is better prepared this time - he knows what the curse does. It will make him re-live his worst memories until there is no joy left, no hope, no will to live. Arthur has no idea how curses work, but perhaps it is possible to fight it. _And if it's not? Then there is no hope for me._

Last time, Merlin had been present when Arthur was cursed, and Merlin had used his own magic to save him. In this life, Arthur barely knows anything at all about Merlin, and certainly not whether or not he has magic. Gaius is Arthur's only hope. Gaius saw what happened, and if he contacts Merlin... But that is not much of a hope. Gaius has never given any hints about remembering, and even if he does remember, even if he does ask for Merlin's help and Merlin proves to have magic, there is no guarantee that Merlin would want to use that magic to save Arthur. Not if _he_ remembers.

No, the chance is slim. There are far too many ifs and buts. Arthur is on his own; Merlin will not come to the rescue this time. And since there is no way out of this strange cave except through the maze of Arthur's own memories, he might as well get on with it and improvise along the way. Nothing is gained by waiting.

Arthur studies the images around him and makes a face, resigned to his task. _I will start with one of the least awful memories._ Decision made, Arthur takes a deep breath and steps inside the image.

xxx

"What are you doing?"

Arthur is standing in the doorway to Morgana's room, thunderstruck. Her chest of drawers has been emptied, the wardrobe door is open, and there is a suitcase on her bed. By the door near Arthur's feet is her rucksack, stuffed full to bursting point.

"What does it look like?" Morgana says.

She does not even turn around, just folds a couple of blouses and places them in the suitcase. She is right, of course - it is obvious what she is doing, and Arthur's first reaction is a panicked, selfish one. _What about me? What am I going to do? Don't leave me here!_

"Do you really have to?" he asks.

He hates his voice for wobbling and knows that this question is nearly as stupid as the previous one. This time, Morgana turns around to face him. Her mouth is hard and she does not meet his eyes, quite. Her gaze hovers somewhere around his eyebrows.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur," she says in clipped tones. "You know that Dad and I don't see eye to eye on _anything_, and I really mean anything. If I stay here, I won't... I'm going to... you know what he is like. I need to go where I can breathe, where I can be _me_. Where I don't feel useless all the time, and wrong, and unnatural."

Arthur swallows. He knows exactly what she is talking about because he feels much the same, but he is sixteen years old and will have to stay with their father for another two years, and he does not know what to do without his sister. Together, they have an ally at least. But with Morgana gone...

"I'm of age," she says a little defiantly, as if she knows what he is thinking. "I can go wherever I want to go and do whatever I want to do." She pauses and laughs, a joyless little thing of a laugh. "God, Arthur, listen to me. I really do need to leave. Staying here makes me sound like a bad song."

She comes up to him and hugs him then, hard, and Arthur bites the inside of his cheeks not to cry from anger and self-pity, or from empathy with her, chews the edges of his tongue until the tears in his eyes are from pain. Morgana smells like her citrus shower gel and Arthur is going to miss her so much he does not even want to think about it.

"It feels like I should try to talk you out of it," he murmurs into her hair. "But I do know Dad. I'm pretty sure I'll do the same thing you are doing when I turn eighteen."

Morgana pulls away and looks at him. The expression in her eyes is a mixture of pity and disdain, Arthur thinks - and maybe a hint of jealousy.

"No, you won't," she says. "You are his crown prince, you will do what you have to do because... well, I don't know why, but you will. Because you are you, I suppose. And sometimes I admire you for it, for your... your perseverance. Sometimes I envy you just a little, because you _belong_. But I have no place here. There is no room for me. Uther wants me to - to - he wants me _not_ to be what I am, Arthur. He wants me _not to have magic_. Oh, god, that is so Uther, it's so utterly unreasonable. I mean, what could I possibly do about it even if I wanted to? I can't chop off my magic or exorcise it."

_Like he wants me not to be gay_, Arthur thinks, but then maybe he is not gay and it is just a phase; people like to say that about teenagers. That things are just a phase. And perhaps they are right, because there are girls he likes, too, and perhaps the crush on boys, the getting hard from looking at the back of Percy's neck in class stuff, will just go away. He gets hard thinking about Elena's breasts, too, so maybe that is not a totally unrealistic hope.

"Where will you go?" he asks helplessly.

"I'm not telling you," Morgana replies with her back to him as she closes the suitcase and locks it. "Actually I'm not sure where I'll go, but I wouldn't tell you even if I knew, because if Uther asks, you won't be able to keep your mouth shut."

Arthur notices that she has stopped saying Dad and calls their father by name. She wants to distance herself from him, from _them_. He does not want her to categorise him with Uther; he is her brother and he wants to go on being her brother. The one she talks to.

"I would too!" He sounds like he is five years old, but he knows she is right. "Morgana," he says and catches her arm as she pushes past him through the door. "Just... just let me know you're okay, yeah?"

Her mouth does a weird twisty thing and he realises she is trying not to cry. She just nods, as if her voice fails her.

And that is that. Arthur hears the front door shut, hears a car door slam - it's a cab, he sees it as he runs to the living room window. Then he is alone in the house, alone with his father with no ally to turn to, no one to throw pillows at or wrestle for the remote or have long breakfasts with on Sundays.

He walks slowly back to his room where he throws himself on the bed and lies there for hours, watching the light wander across the ceiling.

xxx

Perhaps I should have tried to stop her, Arthur thinks now, but he knows he could not have. Nothing could have persuaded her to stay, and he can only hope she is happier where she is, wherever that is. He gets the occasional email from her, and he writes to her every week, as he has done from the first email he received, just responding to the sender address without knowing where she is. She hardly ever replies or comments on anything he says. _Don't worry about me, I'm fine. Take care of yourself_. That is usually her entire message, but at least he knows she is alive.

He has failed her, he realises with a sick stab of guilt. He let her leave and never tried to find her, thinking she did not want to be found. But what is it like for her, knowing that her brother never even made an effort?

Arthur remembers another day with Morgana and Uther in the car. It is summer, warm; they are driving along a narrow road somewhere in the countryside. Arthur is six and Morgana eight. Arthur is in the back seat with the window open. He sticks his hand through it and laughs half frightened, half delighted, at the strong wind. It catches his hand and presses it backwards, as if an invisible giant has taken hold of it. He spreads his fingers and feels the chill of the wind against his palm, the rush of it between his fingers.

"I don't need to wash my hands before we eat," he declares to his father and sister. "I'm all wind-washed now!"

Morgana opens the window on her side and sticks her head out. Her hair flies wildly around her like something alive. When Uther sees her in the rear mirror, he pulls over and stops.

"Are you both insane?" he says, opening the driver side door angrily and getting out. "You could get yourself killed! Don't ever let me see you do that again, Morgana."

She puts her tongue out at her father and he clenches his teeth, jaw muscle jumping under the skin. It looks like he would like to slap her but just pushes her inside and closes the window with jerky movements. Morgana looks at Arthur and grins, but Arthur closes the window on his side and curls in his seat, ducking his head. He hates it when Uther is angry with him. He will do anything to make that look in Uther's eyes go away. Anything.

xxx

If I get out of this alive, Arthur thinks, I have to find Morgana. It's been six years since she left. And sixteen since that day in the car, when he had thought he would do anything if it could only make Uther not be angry with him. That feeling has persisted. Arthur's instinct is always to apologise to Uther, even if he knows that he is right and Uther is wrong. He needs to learn to quench that impulse more consistently and stand up for himself.

As the Crown Prince of Camelot, it had been harder to resist, bound by duty and honour as he had been. _I'm a coward_, Arthur thinks, _in this life and before._

xxx

Arthur walks along the corridor leading to the king's chambers. His steps are determined, his shoulders braced. Outside the familiar, heavy oak door he stops, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. What he has to say is neither enjoyable nor easy, but he has to say it nonetheless.

There is no answer from within. Arthur frowns and knocks again.

"Come," Uther says, and Arthur pushes the door open.

Uther is at his table with a goblet of wine by his side and a quill in his hand, looking up with a furrow between his eyebrows. Arthur inhales in preparation to speak but Uther waves an impatient, dismissive hand. "We will not discuss this any further, Arthur. I will not agree to negotiations and that is that."

"If you would just hear me out," Arthur says, trying hard not to sound pleading. "You have nothing to lose by hearing me out. Please, Father. I think you should listen."

Sometimes, Uther is so consumed by living up to his own image of a hard but just king that he ironically forgets about justice, about fairness and wisdom, and only the hardness remains.

Now, Uther's eyes darken. "So I do not listen? My son is telling me I should listen? Well, Arthur, let me reveal something to you: your problem is the opposite. You listen too much - to everyone, everywhere, always. This not necessarily a virtue."

"Collecting information gives me a better foundation for my decisions," Arthur replies stiffly.

Uther puts the quill down on the table, slowly and deliberately, and leans back in his chair. "Oh, this is getting better and better. Now you are saying that my decisions are uninformed. That _I_ am."

"No, I did not mean - "

"Age and experience, Arthur, age and experience. That has to count for something even in your world, does it not? But perhaps it is not possible to truly appreciate something you have not yet achieved." Uther picks up the quill. "My decision stands, and as I have told you repeatedly, I will not discuss this further. Perhaps you would do well to show a little more humility."

Arthur bites back his protest. "Yes, Father. I apologise, and I wish you a good night."

xxx

"Weak," Arthur whispers to himself where he stands in the odd gallery of his own memories. "I was weak then; I am weak now. Useless."

The old patterns repeat themselves so relentlessly. Perhaps there is no way out this time either.

xxx

Arthur had been seventeen when he had begun to remember. At first he had thought he was insane, but he was not hearing voices telling him what to do or imagining himself to be King Arthur _now_. It was simply memories like any other, except they happened to be from another life.

They were very clear and detailed. He remembered emotions, sensations, light, sounds, textures, smells. Clothes. Politics. Places. Food.

And people.

One after another they had turned up in his current life, the people who had meant most to him in Camelot. Uther and Morgana had already been there; they were his family now as they had been then. Gaius had been there too, as a friend of Uther's.

At university, Arthur had met Guinevere.

xxx

Arthur loves being at uni. He studies when he has to and not so much when he doesn't, he makes friends and plays football and goes clubbing, but sometimes he feels much older than nineteen. The other students don't care much about the consequences of what they do or think too much about the future. They have sex and get drunk and have fun, but Arthur is looking for something. He is not sure what it is, only that he has not found it. _Something._ He has had a girlfriend and two boyfriends - none of those relationships lasted because they missed whatever it was, too. Now he is single and not looking for commitment, hardly even for sex. Sometimes he feels ancient. He is nineteen years old and has the experience of a whole lifetime. Of course he feels different from his fellow students.

He meets Gwen when she comes into Gaius's shop. She is every bit as pretty as she had been then and just as kind, and Arthur knows from the moment he sees her that he will love her. He does, and their relationship is gentle and easy and fun, but there is more glow than fire. Whatever it is Arthur is looking for is not to be found here, either.

The day Arthur comes back to his room to find Gwen waiting for him at the door, they have been a couple for nearly two years. As soon as he sees her he knows what is coming. He knows it from the look on her face, her demeanour, her posture. She follows him into the room quietly and does not want to sit. She is so very sorry, she says, but it just isn't working between them.

"I do love you, Arthur, you know that, but sometimes it feels like you are more of a... friend." Her fingers are playing with an elastic hair ribbon, twisting and pulling it until it nearly snaps. She seems unaware of doing it. "Oh god, it sounds awful when I say it like that. I don't mean...well, I do, but..."

Arthur ought to be upset, he thinks. He ought to feel hurt or betrayed or at least feel _something_, something more acute than this dull acceptance. But there is no pain or hurt or betrayal involved because Gwen is right; it is not working between them. Even the sex is slightly awkward, as if they really are just good friends who try having sex to see what it would be like. So no, Arthur is not hurt. All he feels is a kind of tired sadness.

"I'm not what you need," Gwen says in a small voice. "I feel bad about not being able to give you what you need. Maybe if I'd been a bloke..."

He hugs her then, just holds her without saying anything. It would have been no different if she had been a bloke. The problem is not her gender; the problem is not Gwen. They breathe together for a minute.

"Perhaps we tried to be something we're not," Arthur says gently when he can't take the silence any longer. "Please don't apologise. You have done absolutely nothing wrong. This is no one's fault. I think we are better as friends, and you know I love you too. You _do_ know that, don't you?"

There are tears in her eyelashes when she pulls back and looks up at him, but she bites her lip and smiles as she nods. "I'd like for us to be friends."

Arthur leans down and kisses her softly on the mouth one last time.

When Gwen leaves there is an emptiness in his chest, in his head and in his room. It is not the emptiness of something missing but the kind of calm, quiet emptiness that follows on a decision, when it is final but the next step has not been taken. The pause in between. Arthur does not know what the next step is.

No, the problem here is not Gwen or her gender. Arthur has had the same problem with everyone he has tried to love, because they all share the same flaw: they are not Merlin.

xxx

Of all the people Arthur failed, he failed Merlin the worst.

Merlin appears in his dreams at night - Merlin the sorcerer towering over him, accusing and dangerous, or Merlin as he was when he first arrived in Camelot - a boy with dimples and innocent eyes, much too cheeky for his own good. Brave, loyal Merlin who sometimes showed such unexpected glimpses of wisdom.

Arthur's great mistake had been to let himself get scared - of Merlin, of Merlin's magic, and most of all of himself. He can't bear to think about it. The distance between them. The loneliness of them both. They had gone under.

xxx

Arthur has been helping Gaius at the bookshop for years, whenever Gaius needs him. Sometimes there are months between his days at the shop, sometimes - typically at the beginning of the term - he works a day or two a week. Apparently there is a second student helping this year, but his days have not coincided with Arthur's yet.

It is a clear, crisp autumn day and Arthur is in a good mood as he walks from the tube stop to the shop. Twice on the way he gets smiled at by strangers, and concludes that he must be smiling to himself.

The doorbell tinkles when he enters, but Gaius is nowhere to be seen. Over by the psychology shelf two girls are giggling hysterically, and a tall boy browsing the nearby philosophy section is glancing at them, his mouth twitching. Arthur begins to make his way towards the back of the shop when a dark head pops out from behind a bookshelf.

"Can I help you?"

The world slows to a halt around him, and for a moment Arthur honestly believes he is going to pass out. He stands there to the sound of those giggling girls and just stares, because the boy in front of him is Merlin. Arthur is rooted to the spot and can't think of a single thing to say, not even a "hello" which would probably be appropriate. Merlin's eyebrows shoot up, and he is about to say something when Gaius appears.

"Oh, Arthur, you're here," the old man says. "Excellent. This is Merlin."

Arthur is surprised that he gets any work at all done that day. His only focus is Merlin; everything else is a blur. Merlin looks the same - tall, gangly, blue-eyed and pale with a few freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. The dimples are the same; the mop of black hair, the silly ears and the long fingers. Arthur wants to talk to Merlin like he did when they were still close, refer to all their old memories, the _good ones_ - do you remember the stable cat you named Archimedes? Do you remember that time when Gwaine was so drunk he tried to snog the broom? _Do you remember?_

And perhaps Merlin does, because he is cautious and not overly friendly. He talks to Arthur only when the situation demands it and does not spend a minute more than necessary in his company.

So the days go by and they are still no more than acquaintances. They go to the cinema once; they go for a coffee sometimes on a break. Arthur does not want to push it. He looks at Merlin's hands holding the coffee mug and remembers them handling a sword, remembers them holding a blue, crackling ball of magic. He looks at Merlin's pretty mouth and remembers a kiss. He wants to be close and does not know how.

xxx

What a coward Arthur had been back then. He had loved Merlin, he had _wanted_ him, and Merlin had wanted him back. But Arthur had refused to put himself in that position, did not want to risk anyone knowing. God, that kiss, that one kiss they had shared - the sweetness of it, and the agony. Arthur had wanted it so badly and for so long, and when it had happened at last, it had frightened him with its intensity. He had been terrified by his own emotions because they had threatened to consume him, and he could not let himself be consumed. There were his duties to consider; his country and his people. He could not let one person - one man! - be everything to him. If he let his love for Merlin bloom, it would ruin him.

And so he had pushed Merlin aside, only to wake up one day and find Merlin gone.

xxx

It is harder going now. The memories are getting darker; the space smaller and more oppressive. Arthur's shoulders are aching as if he is carrying something heavy, as if he is wearing armour. Even if he was not physically harmed by the curse, there is still a dull, throbbing pain in his chest. He presses a hand to his sternum, clenches his teeth and stumbles half-blind through the gallery of his failures and his guilt, his mistakes and his bad conscience, of all the things that he did wrong and all the times he did not listen.

xxx

Arthur knocks gently on his father's door. It's late in the evening but the door is ajar and Uther's lamp is still lit. When there is no answer, Arthur sticks his head around the door and opens his mouth to speak, but stops himself. Uther is sitting on the bed with his back to the door, his shoulders hunched and his body turned just enough for Arthur to see what it is he is holding in his hand.

"I missed you today," Uther murmurs, making Arthur jump. "I wish you had been there to talk to. With you, everything was so much easier."

He is talking to Ygraine's photograph, the framed one from his bedside table; his voice thick with tears as his thumb caresses the glass. Arthur backs away slowly, retreating down the corridor careful not to make a sound. It feels like being punched, knowing.

Knowing that Uther still, after all these years, misses Ygraine so painfully. That he still wishes he could talk to her. And that it is Arthur's fault that things are the way they are.

_Dad would have been so much better off without me. He would have been happy still, if it had not been for me._

It is ridiculous and over-dramatic to think that way; Arthur knows this. He did not kill his mother. He was just _born_. But the fact remains: if it had not been for Arthur, Ygraine would still be here. He caused her death simply by existing, and made his father a deeply unhappy man. There is nothing he can do. Nothing.

xxx

Arthur's steps are slowing, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier. He is responsible for his mother's death, and back in Camelot, he had failed to save his father's. Uther bleeding in his arms on the floor is an image that will never go away. He remembers every thread in the weave of Uther's linen shirt, the round dark stains from his own tears. And later Uther's pale, lifeless face on the pillow. The certainty that he would die. Arthur had taken desperate measures that time and had paid for it, paid for it with his father's life.

xxx

Sometimes Arthur dreams about killing the unicorn. The beautiful creature comes dancing into the clearing, shimmering in the light, and he shoots it. The heavy thud when it falls makes him wince. Then come the dry wells and ruined crops, the starving people. And Arthur is the cause of it all - he, who should have protected his people and provided for them.

xxx

Arthur is staggering, unable to walk upright, and still pressing a hand to his sternum to ease the pain. He is almost there, he can feel it. The Door is calling to him. Somewhere deep inside he still harbours the hope that Merlin will come, that Merlin still has magic and will reach him in time. But he knows better than to expect it, and he does not deserve to be saved. Merlin, Morgana... the people he failed and betrayed. They will be better off without him.

He is so exhausted he trips and falls, landing on all fours. When he looks up he sees a scene he will never be able to forget. This is the worst memory of them all: the Druid camp.

It never leaves him alone. It does not matter that he once asked forgiveness for what he had done, and received it - that does not change the actual fact of what he did that day, what he caused to happen. It is of no matter that he was young and wanted desperately to prove himself to his father and his men - the fact remains: he killed innocent people to prove himself worthy of the throne one day. He wanted to show his men that he could lead them, that he could give difficult orders and stand with the best of them. There is no justification for what he did. There never has been. What is worse, he knew it to be wrong from the beginning; knew that the order from his father had been given in blind hate and without reason. The Druids caused no harm, no disturbance. They lived their lives quietly and peacefully according to their ancient faith, performing their rituals and everyday tasks, and never imposed their magic on other people unless they were asked to. But Arthur raided the camp on his father's orders, anxious to live up to expectations and show everyone that he was a capable commander of men.

He had much to learn.

xxx

Arthur stands with his men looking out over the valley where the Druid camp lies peacefully in the morning light. Here and there smoke rises from breakfast fires and the smell of cooking reaches his nose. This is wrong, he _knows_ it is wrong, and yet it must be done.

Arthur gives the order.

"Spare the lives of women and children!" he roars as the men burst forth, but his words are lost in the clamour.

He will never forget what he sees that day, will never again underestimate the cruelty of men. Once the killing begins, there is no stopping it. Arthur continues to shout his orders about women and children, but some of his men are too far gone in their bloodlust to listen. The attack is already completely out of hand.

Arthur remembers it as a blur of faded red and blue, the dyes favoured by the Druids for their tents and cloaks. He remembers the red stained deeper red by their blood; he remembers the screams. Tents are ripped open, swords and daggers cut and stab through fabric and flesh. Pots and bowls are overturned and their contents spilled on the ground, and the tents are set on fire. He remembers how the dry washing on a line catches fire and burns brightly, the flames floating in the air like a magic trick. The stench of fire is thick in his nostrils. Burning straw, wool, flesh; hot metal and charred leather. Water splashed over hot stone.

The whole camp is destroyed. Men, women and children - not a single one is left alive.

In the black, livid desert of smoking ashes and burnt, twisted bodies, Arthur squats next to the small, charred body of a child. Tears rise in his eyes, bile in his throat. When he gingerly lifts one of the tiny hands, it comes apart in his fingers. Shocked, he falls backwards but quickly gets to his feet, staggering off to vomit behind a rock. Over and over he wipes his chalky palm on his breeches, rubs it until the skin is raw, shuddering from head to toe and gagging again at the feel of human bones in his hand.

The men are quiet as they ride back. They have sobered up after their frenzy and many of them are ashamed. Leon is there beside Arthur; Leon who would rather die than hurt a child. Arthur saw him try to stop the others back at the camp, saw him try to make them see sense, but they were beyond listening. Tears have made meandering little paths in the soot on Leon's face. Arthur's heart is beating hard, choking him. He does not want to look at Leon, cannot bear to meet his eyes.

They never talk about it afterwards. No one mentions the raid on the Druid camp until Arthur and his knights come across the sanctuary by mistake; no one would have mentioned it if Elyan's water skin had not been empty. But when Elyan drinks from the well and the ghost of the Druid boy haunts him, Arthur knows he must return and ask forgiveness. If that is what the Druids demand, Arthur will give them his life. There is no choice in the matter. Justice can never be done. This is as close as they will come.

Arthur is glad to have Merlin with him when he rides back, glad that Merlin gets to hear his confession and his plea for forgiveness. He wants Merlin to know what sort of man Arthur was, but also what sort of man he has become. He wants Merlin to hear what happened that day, what Arthur did and what he failed to do; he wants Merlin to know how much he hates himself for it. He finds great comfort in Merlin's company that day.

But that was before Arthur knew who Merlin was. _What_ Merlin was.

xxx

To this day, Arthur can't abide the smell of burning. Sometimes he wakes up with the stench of the Druid camp in his nostrils and his day is ruined; sometimes he walks past a garden where someone is peacefully burning leaves, and he claps a hand over his nose and mouth to fight the instant nausea. To him this is the stench of horror, of death and of lost control, when he sees disaster coming and is unable to stop it. A symbol of everything that went wrong.

xxx

He had expected to be at the Door. Last time he had to find his way through the maze of his memories, the Druid camp had been the last one. The Door is near, he can sense it, but there is one more, bleak memory to re-live before he is there. Something that, back then, had yet to happen.

xxx

"Has anyone seen Merlin this morning?" Arthur asks Sir Leon. "He was not present for the Council."

It turns out that no one has seen Merlin since yesterday.

"Shall I go find him, Sire?" Sir Leon asks.

"I will do it myself," Arthur says.

It is unusual for him to go to Merlin's chambers. They have grown apart and these days Arthur feels like an intruder when he does, as if it is too personal, too intimate, to be in the chamber where Merlin sleeps, looking at his unmade bed, his scattered clothes and the unwashed soup bowls.

Merlin does not tend to Arthur any more. After revealing his magic, he was relieved of all his servant's duties.

"I don't mind doing it, Arthur," he had said and laughed. "Not now that I can use my magic to get it done!"

But Arthur had thought it bad use of the great resource that Merlin's magic was, and that it was time for Merlin to be acknowledged as the king's advisor. It had not brought them closer.

Arthur climbs the steps to Merlin's chambers and knocks on the door.

"Merlin! Are you awake? Were you at the tavern yesterday?"

Not a sound is heard from the other side of the door, and Arthur knocks again.

"Merlin! I'll have you put in the stocks for defying your king."

It is an old, feeble joke between them, both of them knowing that Merlin only follows the orders he wants to follow, and the stocks will not hold him unless he chooses to let them.

When there is still no reply, Arthur pushes the door open. The chambers are empty. Merlin must be out on some errand.

They lead separate lives these days. Merlin usually attends Council and any Round Table gatherings where he is needed, but otherwise they do not see much of each other. Merlin occasionally takes a meal with Arthur and Guinevere, which Arthur knows Guinevere enjoys, but Arthur is always uneasy on these occasions. He sits watching them both, the two people he loves most in the world, and sees the choices he could have made and the one he did make. He watches Merlin's fingers hold a spoon or peel an apple, and wonder what they would feel like under his own clothes, on his skin. And he looks at Guinevere and is ashamed.

When Merlin does not appear at Council the next morning or the morning after and no one seems to know anything of his whereabouts, Arthur sends out a search party. They return with nothing, and Arthur sends two of his knights to Ealdor. They come back without news of Merlin.

Arthur thinks of Merlin every minute of every day, as if Merlin has moved in permanently in Arthur's mind.

He never returns.

xxx

The Door is even more forbidding than Arthur remembered. He must tilt his head back to be able to see it all; the two black, heavy door halves, the panels on either side and the one above. The Door is sinister but promises freedom and peace: if he can only make it open for him to step through, he will be relieved of his pain. Once he steps through, all his guilt will be erased.

All of a sudden, Arthur can hear the sea. He remembers Merlin on the rock shore, how they had sat facing each other under the watchful eyes of Anhora. The crashing waves, the poison in the cup, the pale light touching the rim of the chalice and glinting in Merlin's eyes... Merlin, so ready to die for Arthur. But the poison had not been Merlin's to drink, and Arthur had taken it.

He had been so close to death then, and he is so close now. If he can find that shore, with the sound of the waves and the sea birds crying, then he will be free. If he can only open the Door, he will find the sea on the other side of it.

_Not yet_, a voice inside him says. _Not yet._

And Arthur waits. Despite the odds, despite the pain that bends his back like that of an old man, he waits.

The sea is calling him.


	5. Part Five: The Hunter's Heart

PART FIVE - THE HUNTER'S HEART

_I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters__  
__kept smudging as I wrote them; the hunter's heart,__  
__the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the__  
__space between the trees, swimming in gold._

From his place on the hillside, Merlin can see the entire valley. The Druid camp is on fire; smoke is rising towards the sky. The screams can be heard all the way up here. Merlin steels himself and runs down the slope into the chaos. The pain and fear, the thick, sweet smell of blood, Arthur's panic - it is almost more than Merlin can bear. Prince Arthur is here, desperately trying to lead his men although he has long since lost control of them, but Arthur, the _real_ living Arthur, is nowhere to be found.

Merlin calls up the map. It is difficult to read but it seems he can't make it any clearer. Perhaps it would have been possible if he had been calmer - his rising panic shows in the blurring of the map. If he does not find Arthur soon it will be too late, and the map, depending as it is on his ability to focus his magic, is shaky and hazy. Fragments of it are flickering in and out, some dying and returning, others going out. Merlin takes a minute to calm himself, breathing slowly. Inhale, exhale, find a rhythm. Then he focuses on the glittering thread woven into the texture of the map. It is related to Arthur's path through the maze; he can sense Arthur in it.

The Door, then.

A few times now he has tried to trick the curse. He wants to take a shortcut, reach the Door before Arthur does and wait for him there, but each time he is stopped. Something blocks his magic when he tries. The curse is obstructing him.

"Take me to the Door," he wordlessly orders his magic again. "I need to get to the Door."

And this time Arthur must have reached it, because now the path lies open before Merlin. He rushes through the dark tunnel towards the Door.

xxx

It is a frightening thing, beautiful in a terrifying way and more of a gate than a door - black and towering, richly ornamented with scenes depicting tortured humans. They are writhing on the ground or bowed in sorrow, kept in chains or kneeling at the feet of angels. The Door is like Death itself, Merlin thinks - not evil or cruel, but merciless in its very existence. It is absolute. Merlin cannot begin to imagine a state of mind where he would willingly pass through it. Anyone who comes to regard the Door as a liberator must be in utter despair. And this is what the curse does: drive the person cursed to despair.

Merlin swallows as he sees the small figure on the ground. Dwarfed by the black gate, Arthur sits with his knees drawn up and his head bent, pressing an arm to his midriff. Merlin's heart hammers as he calls Arthur's name.

Arthur does not seem to hear him. He does not lift his head or give even the smallest sign of noticing Merlin's presence, and when Merlin tries to move forward, the wall of magic is there again, blocking him. He can see Arthur but not reach him.

"Don't give up, Arthur," he shouts even though he knows Arthur can't hear. "Wait for me!"

He sets to work quickly, examining the wards put in place by the curse. There must be a weak point somewhere, and if he can only find it, if he can poke one hole in the complex fabric of spells, it will be ripped apart. But if there is a weak point at all, it is hidden well. Merlin finds nothing.

On the other side of the wall of magic, Arthur is beginning to move. He straightens his back and looks around, tilts his head back to look up at the Door.

"Arthur, no," Merlin breathes. "Don't do it. _Please_."

He needs to act quickly now. _I am Merlin_, he thinks, and the simple words give him an unexpected surge of confidence. If he fails to disentangle the wards, perhaps he can use sheer force to get through. Even if he feels very small right now, helpless and inexperienced, _he is Merlin_; his magic is as powerful as any the world has ever seen.

He closes his eyes and summons up every glowing, writhing, luminous thread of his magic that he can find, twining them together, molding them as he prepares for attack. He remembers what his magic felt like when he used it to protect Camelot, to protect Albion; back when he was Arthur's greatest and most powerful weapon. This is nothing in comparison, and Merlin nearly laughs as he directs the full force of his magic at the wall.

xxx

Arthur sits at the foot of the Door, waiting. Even though he has his back to it, every fibre of his being is aware of its presence. He remembers standing in this very same spot, injured and in pain, convinced that his people would be better off without him - Guinevere, Merlin; they all would be.

Then Merlin had appeared out of the shadows like... like an _angel_, gone down on his knees and begged Arthur to stay. Good, faithful Merlin who he had loved so.

_Yes, I loved him_, Arthur thinks. _But I would not give in to it. I thought it would ruin us. We were ruined anyway, destroyed - because of me. Because of my choices; what I chose not to do._

But this time around... Perhaps this time around, he can make it up to Merlin...? But no, it is already too late, and Arthur should not waste more time sitting here waiting. Merlin will not come. He _can't_ come. He does not know.

Just as Arthur gets up on his feet, his eye catches movement at the edge of his field of vision, and all of a sudden the whole space fills with blinding light. He throws up his arms to protect his face, and through the noise like that of an enormous sheet of glass shattering, he hears a voice calling his name.

When the light dies down there is Merlin running towards him across the debris, not Merlin in his red cloak with the Pendragon crest but _Merlin_ in jeans and hoodie with his hair on end, Merlin looking angry and scared.

"Don't you dare," he says and pulls Arthur into a fierce hug, "don't you dare go through the Door. I won't let you."

xxx

Arthur is shaking in Merlin's arms, from pain or exhaustion or just plain relief, and perhaps Merlin is shaking a little, too. His hands are still buzzing with magic; his eyes are burning.

"You came," Arthur murmurs with his head against Merlin's shoulder.

"Of course I did."

There had been no "of course" about it this morning, but Merlin has lived a lifetime since then.

"I should go through the Door," Arthur says, muffled by the the fabric of Merlin's hoodie. "I should have gone through it last time. But I'm a coward, Merlin. I'm afraid to do it."

Merlin pulls back and frowns, holding Arthur at arm's length and shaking him until he meets Merlin's eyes. "What are you talking about?"

Arthur looks at him, his face blank and his eyes empty as if he does not understand Merlin's words. "A coward," he repeats. "Weak. You must have seen it all, coming here. You must have seen how I failed everyone. _Everyone._"

"Arthur," Merlin says and shakes him again. "You have been cursed. Are you saying you are a coward for succumbing to a curse? This is what the curse _does_, Arthur. It makes you stop believing in yourself; it makes you think you are worthless. You were King Arthur, the greatest king of all time - is that an epithet that sticks to cowards? You were a brave and just king, honest and good and true-hearted, and your name has lived through the centuries. You are truly the most courageous man I ever met. We have saved each other's lives many times, you and I. When you were a prince and I a mere servant, you did not hesitate to risk your own life for me. Do you call that cowardly?"

Arthur says nothing, stares at nothing over Merlin's shoulder. They have to get out of here. He must get Arthur away from the Door.

"Hold on to me," he says.

Arthur does. He holds on as if they are drowning, but Merlin is not going to let them drown. He closes his eyes and feels Arthur's soft hair under his cheek as he focuses the last of his magic once again into that hot, electric, luminous flow that he is learning to love.

xxx

When Merlin's vision clears, they are back in Arthur's room in London. Arthur is still in the bed but Merlin has slid off the chair to the floor once again, holding Arthur's hand so tightly that their palms are sticky with sweat. His joints are stiff and painful and his head aches. What time is it? How long have they been here?

On the bed above him, Arthur is stirring, trying to sit up. Merlin lifts his head and their eyes meet. Neither of them speaks for several long seconds. Because what do you say, Merlin thinks, to someone whose thoughts and dreams and memories you have just violated - even if it was to save him? What do you say to someone who, seconds ago, wanted to die?

"Thank you," Arthur says. His voice is rough and he clears his throat. "I know it sounds... I don't know, _small_, but - thank you for saving me."

Merlin smiles a little. "If you keep getting yourself cursed, what can I do? Someone has to rescue you."

Arthur does not smile back. He looks at Merlin, worried. "Merlin, are you okay? You look...I'm not sure what it was you did back there, but... are you okay?"

Merlin is fine, he thinks, but he is so exhausted he can barely speak. "If I can only... get up off the floor."

Without a word, Arthur reaches down and pulls him up on the bed, moving over to make space. Merlin is so tired the room swims around him. The soft bed with its white bedding and thick duvet feels like heaven. The sheets are warm and smell like Arthur, and Merlin's head fits so perfectly in the dent in the pillow left by Arthur's head... _I should take off my shoes_, Merlin thinks vaguely, but sleep is overpowering him. Just before it takes him completely, he thinks he feels the weight of Arthur's arm across his waist.

xxx

When Merlin wakes up, the light has changed to the dark gold of late afternoon, and next to him Arthur is moving, sitting up.

"Mmmmh," Merlin says and rubs at his eyes. His body is heavy as if he has run a long race, but he feels much better than before. He wonders how long they have slept.

"Hello," says Arthur softly.

Merlin turns his head to look at him. His hair is ruffled and there are pillow creases on his cheek, and Merlin could go on looking at him for ever. For a moment he is not sure whether he is looking at King Arthur or the Arthur of today, but perhaps he is looking at both. It seems that Arthur is thinking along the same lines, because he reaches out and touches Merlin's shoulder almost shyly, as if to check that Merlin is really there.

"Do you remember... last time?" he asks in a low voice. "When you came to get me last time."

And Merlin nods, because of course he remembers.

"That's where it all went wrong," Arthur says.

xxx

Arthur is standing on the doorstep, overshadowed by the towering Door, bent to curl himself around the wound, trying to deflect the pain in his chest and the pain in his mind. He looks small and frail in his bloodied tunic and he does not even seem to notice Merlin.

"It only takes one step," he says as if talking to himself. "One step over the threshold and into the light, and I will be free."

It is asking a lot - Merlin understands that, but he must do it. He must ask Arthur to stay here in darkness and agonising pain when he could make one move and be rid of it for ever.

"Sire," he says. "Step away from the Door and come with me."

Arthur stares straight ahead as if he does not hear, and the hand that is not pressed to the wound in his chest is slowly creeping towards the heavy iron ring that needs to be pulled for the Door to open.

"Arthur, please." But to get through to Arthur he needs something else, he needs to convince, so he uses the knowledge of what he saw as he passed through the maze of Arthur's mind. Sinking to his knees, he looks up at Arthur like a dog at his master, a dog knowing it is about to be left behind. "Please, Arthur, for me. Stay, for _me_."

Arthur does not look at him even now. He is staring past Merlin with unseeing eyes.

"I'm glad," he says with stiff lips like repeating an almost forgotten line, an echo from another life, "I'm glad you're here, Merlin."

Then his legs give out and he drops heavily to his knees on the threshold. Merlin catches him as he falls forward, clutching him to his own chest like they are drowning. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and rests his chin atop Arthur's head. With an effort that almost surpasses his strength he pulls them away from the Door, out of Arthur's mind and back into the king's chambers.

xxx

When they come to, it is as if they have never moved at all. Arthur is on his back on the bed, Merlin on the floor next to it, holding Arthur's hand in a fierce grip. Embarrassed, he releases it, and raises his head to find Arthur's eyes on him.

"I have been blind, haven't I," Arthur says. "All this time."

Heat rises to Merlin's face. "I... I don't..."

"All this time you have been by my side, and I have not seen you," Arthur continues quietly. "But now I know. I saw what you just did. _I know what you are._"

Fear is a powerful emotion, and despite Merlin's exhaustion it kicks in his chest, but what can he do but close his eyes and wait for the blow, the hate in Arthur's voice, the bitter words, the order to leave Camelot... or the execution order.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, because he is; not sorry that he has magic and that he used it to save Arthur, like he always has, but sorry that he did not tell Arthur long ago.

Arthur does not reply and Merlin waits, trembling a little, pulse pounding in his temples. What he wants is to stay because he knows Arthur needs him, and God knows he needs Arthur, too. What he wants is to keep protecting his king, advise him, help him, laugh with him, _love_ him, and be Arthur's servant until the day he dies.

Arthur is still silent, but then something unexpected happens: he touches Merlin's hair, tentatively at first but then sliding his fingers gently through it. Merlin looks up at him, astonished and wide-eyed. He catches Arthur's wrist and pulls his hand down, pressing it to his own face, nestling his cheek against Arthur's palm. His eyes are on Arthur's, and there is something in them, a look that…

"My liege," he whispers.

Arthur's lips part and a small, confused frown appears on his face.

"Merlin," he says, "what has gone into you? What prompted this? You are not usually… reverent."

Merlin smiles, still pressing his cheek into Arthur's palm. It feels as if anything could happen now.

"After what you just did for me, Merlin," says Arthur softly, "you should rest in the softest bed in Camelot, not be on your knees on the floor."

Merlin glances up at him, remembering what he saw in Arthur's mind. How Arthur felt about him, about them. What he wanted them to do. "I could give you a filthy reply to that," he whispers.

"What?" Arthur stiffens and blushes crimson. "You… I…" he splutters. "Get up off the floor, Merlin!"

Merlin laughs at that, but the truth is he can't move.

"To be honest, Arthur," he says quietly, "I don't think I can."

Arthur sits up so abruptly it must hurt. "What is the matter?"

"I just... I'm exhausted, that is all." Merlin puts his head down on the bedclothes because he can't hold it up any longer.

"Don't lie to me, Merlin, I warn you!"

"I'm not lying. It's my... my magic. It is.. I have..."

"You have exhausted it," says Arthur gruffly above his head, "saving me. Get yourself up here, Merlin."

It is awkward with both of them weak and tired, but with some shuffling and shoving and pulling, they get Merlin onto the bed.

And that is how Gaius finds them a while later, fast asleep in Arthur's bed - Arthur on his back in his bloodied linen tunic with the cut down the front, and Merlin curled up beside him with his back to Arthur, still with his boots on.

xxx

"Of course I remember," says Merlin softly, shocked awake by the memories coming to him so clearly. When he sits up and glances at Arthur, his ears are hot. "I remember us kissing, too, when we woke up in the morning."

Arthur nods, a little red over the cheekbones.

"It wasn't only me who wanted it, was it?" Merlin says, because he has to ask.

Arthur slowly shakes his head. "You know it wasn't."

"I had seen all those things in your mind," Merlin continues. "I saw that you _wanted_ me, and still... That kiss, Arthur. It changed everything for me, and I thought it would for you, too. I thought it would be _us_ from then on, you and me, the way I had wanted us to be almost since the day I came to Camelot. But you stopped it. You chose to pretend that nothing had happened."

Arthur winces. "I was scared," he says simply.

"Of me?"

"Of you, of your magic, of what people would say, but mostly I think I was scared of myself." If it's possible to sound sad even after centuries, that is what Arthur does. "Merlin, I can't even begin tell you how sorry I am for how things turned out. It was all my fault, I know it was. I pushed you away, and you left. You left and you never came back."

"I had to," Merlin says.

It is a strange sensation, the waves of time lapping at the shores of his mind; it is so strange to sit here in Arthur's bed and talk about the things that happened many centuries ago as if they happened yesterday. But all their memories have been awakened now, and the pain is still raw. There are still things that need to be said.

"I had to leave. You didn't want me," says Merlin choppily, like he must use short sentences or he will break. "You had Guinevere. I had no one."

Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. "I wanted you," he says. "That was the whole problem. I wanted you too much. Please, Merlin."

His hand slides along Merlin's shoulder to the back of his neck, and Merlin closes his eyes at the feel of Arthur's fingers on his skin. It could be _then_. It is _now_. Everything is blurred; everything is coming together.

"I don't know what you saw inside my mind this time," says Arthur softly. "In fact I'd hate to know. But if you didn't come across... I mean, I still... Ever since we met at Gaius's shop, I've wanted to... but you've been so distant. I thought you still remembered."

Merlin's face heats. "No," he says," I didn't remember the past. I didn't remember any of it until today, when I saw all those memories in your mind. It was just a strange feeling I had about you. That I felt something so... so _strong_ for you without knowing you. It was weird; it scared me. It just seemed really important not to let you come too close."

"So...?" Arthur says.

His fingers is playing with the hair at the nape of Merlin's neck, and Merlin will never be indifferent to Arthur's touch, to anything to do with Arthur. He closes his eyes again and shivers, and Arthur's hand slows down, begins to stroke the back of Merlin's neck very lightly, just his fingertips up and down, a deliberate caress rather than just a touch. Merlin's breath quickens and his lips part. He is hard already, just from that.

Last time they had kissed - the one time - it had ended in disaster, but now they have been given a second chance and Merlin is going to take it. He opens his eyes and meets Arthur's, that are dark with desire. Merlin leans over slowly until their faces are very close and tilts his head, making it clear what his intention is but leaving Arthur space to say no. But it does not seem like he wants to say no. His fingers stop stroking and curl instead around the back of Merlin's neck, strong and sure, his palm warm.

"I'm just warning you," Arthur says with a smile in his voice, "that I have been in a coma for some eighteen hours and that I had just come out of the pub when it happened. My mouth feels like some small furry animal died in there. You should let me brush my teeth first. For your own good."

Merlin laughs. "I don't care if you taste like dead rat. I'm going to kiss you. And I'm probably not all roses and strawberries myself."

"True romantics, the two of us," Arthur breathes and meets Merlin's mouth with his own.

Merlin closes his eyes and loses himself in the kiss, in the warmth of Arthur's lips and the slow, wet slide of his tongue, his soft hair under Merlin's fingers; all the pent-up longing of centuries welling up in them both. He wants Arthur more than he has ever wanted anything, and this time around he is determined to make it work.

Arthur's mouth moves over Merlin's chin and down his neck, his tongue painting a wet pattern on Merlin's skin, making Merlin shudder. "We should lock the door," he murmurs.

Merlin holds out a hand and the lock clicks; Arthur laughs in surprise. The sun touches his hair like a crown. It is impossible not to want him, impossible to wait. Merlin catches the hem of Arthur's t-shirt and pulls the shirt off, muffling Arthur's laugh inside it. It's a breathtaking sight, all that golden skin bared just for Merlin, and he pushes Arthur slowly down on his back on the bed. He wants all of Arthur under his mouth, wants to know what every single part of him tastes like. If his magic can make him high, he thinks, so can the feel of Arthur.

Everything is a little hazy after that. Close-ups of Arthur's neck, shoulders, hands. The shape of his collarbones under Merlin's tongue, the hard nipples, his hipbones and the insides of his thighs. The sound of their ragged breathing in the room. His hand slipping in under Arthur's thigh, lifting it so he can mouth at Arthur's balls. Arthur's fingers in Merlin's hair, his hot silky cock sliding heavily over Merlin's tongue again and again.

"Wait," Arthur pants, "I won't last." As he pushes Merlin off, Merlin licks his palm and pumps Arthur's cock once, twice, and that is all it takes. Arthur is coming already, biting his knuckles.

The room is quiet, air warm with their heat, and Arthur murmurs something that is not quite words and not quite Merlin's name. Slowly Merlin sits up, looking down at Arthur wrecked on the bed, sweaty and flushed with beads of milky come on his stomach and chest. Merlin leans down and catches one with his tongue, pressing the salty bitterness against the roof of his mouth.

"You should have come in my mouth," he breathes, and Arthur's body spasms as if he is trying to come again, wrenching a groan from him.

He reaches for Merlin and pulls him up until he is straddling Arthur's hips. It's a weird angle but Arthur's hand knows what it's doing, closing around Merlin's cock and working him until he sees stars. Orgasm hits him like a dark wave, and he is sure the noises he makes are embarrassing but he is beyond caring.

"That needs some refinement," Arthur says to the ceiling a little later, as they are lying entwined on the bed.

"Mm," Merlin agrees sleepily, rubbing his cheek against Arthur's shoulder, finger painting his chest with come. He never wants to sober up from the intoxicating smell and feel of Arthur's skin; he wants to stay here forever. "But it was still pretty good."

"Practice," Arthur says and lifts his head just enough to kiss Merlin's hair. "It will take practice. We need to make up for two lifetimes."

That is a tempting prospect.

"I'm very sticky," Arthur says. "Can you clean me up with a spell?"

"I don't know any spells."

"What?" Arthur laughs. "No spells? What a crap sorcerer you are."

Merlin pinches him. "I'd like to remind you that I just saved your life."

"I meant, what a _fantastic_ sorcerer you are."

"That's what I thought."

It's getting dark and they are still in bed, just lying close together without talking much. There are still things to ask, things to explain, but they have time now. When there is a knock on the door, they both jump. Their self-indulgent little break is over; the world is reminding them of its existence.

"Merlin?" It's Gaius. The handle moves, and the whole door rattles as if Gaius thinks it's stuck. Merlin and Arthur look at each other and grin. They have been so caught up in each other that the notion of other people feels strange.

"We should probably get dressed before we let anyone in," Arthur whispers.

"Probably. Poor Gaius would be shocked."

"Do you think so? I'm not so sure."

"Merlin?" Gaius voice comes through the door again. He sounds worried. "What is happening? Are you okay in there?"

"We're fine, Gaius," Merlin calls and smiles at Arthur. "Everything is fine."

xxx

Some time in the middle of the night, Merlin wakes up with his face pressed into Arthur's hip and finds Arthur sitting up in bed with his laptop, his face eerily lit from below. Rubbing a hand over his face, Merlin props himself up on his elbow and squints at the screen.

"Mmmmwhat're you doing?"

"Writing an email."

"Uh, can't it wait until tomorrow?"

"I have to do it now while I've got my courage up." Arthur bites his lip and types. "I should have done it long ago."

"Someone important, then," Merlin states and sinks back onto the pillow. He looks up at Arthur's face and pointedly does not ask.

"Morgana," Arthur answers the silent question. "Gaius said last night that he is a strong believer in second chances. I decided I'm going to believe in them, too. I'm going to use them well. With you, and with Morgana."

Merlin shudders at hearing her name, he can't help it, and Arthur glances at him.

"It's different this time around", he says.

"If you say so," Merlin mutters.

"I promise you it is." Arthur closes the laptop and puts it on the floor by the bed. "There. I'm done. Let's go to sleep."

xxx

When Merlin wakes next time it's bright morning and George is just placing a breakfast tray on the bedside table. He looks so prim and proper and determined not to look at the boys in the bed that Merlin bites his tongue not to laugh. Arthur is quiet while they eat, and when Merlin can't take it any longer, he pokes at him and says: "Go ahead then. Check your email."

Arthur does and freezes, staring at the screen before he turns it so Merlin can see.

"It's a mobile number," he says incredulously. "Morgana sent me her mobile number. She is in France."

Merlin finds that he can still feel Arthur's emotions just like he did inside Arthur's memories - the surprise and joy flows in waves through Merlin's body, washing him in warmth. Perhaps it is a residual effect of him being inside Arthur's mind; perhaps it is here to stay. He leans over and gives Arthur a soft kiss on the mouth.

"Call her," he says. "Call her right away. I'll hold your hand for, you know, general support."

Arthur looks at him like he is the most precious thing in the world. Then he reaches for his phone with one hand and for Merlin's hand with the other.


	6. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

_We're all going forward. None of us are going back._

The drive south from the Eurostar terminal is long and dusty, but Merlin, who has never been abroad before, sits wide-eyed and delighted in the passenger seat making Arthur smile. Each time he glances at Merlin, he sees him framed by the window but with a different background; blocks of flats, a motorway exit, trees, a lake, a field. Like a Merlin slide show.

"Thanks for renting a nice car with air conditioning," Merlin says and wriggles himself into a comfortable position. The cool air stream is blowing his hair into a little peak off his forehead and it's so ridiculously cute that Arthur wants to pull over and snog him silly.

"I don't think there are rental cars without," he says instead.

"Imagine making this trip in my mum's ancient Ford Fiesta! We'd either have the windows shut and die of heat or open them and choke on dust."

"Enjoy the luxury then," Arthur says.

Despite the GPS they need to stop twice to ask directions. Late in the afternoon, when the heat begins to die down and the sun floods the fields with gold, they turn off the main road through the gates of the estate, making their way slowly up the drive. Following the directions of a farmhand they find Morgana outside a long, low brick barn, standing in an enormous plastic vat and laughing with a man with sandy curls and aviator sunglasses. Arthur's heart makes a skip and then doubles its pace. It's been such a very long time since he last saw Morgana so happy - well, since he saw her at all. And the man beside her...

She catches sight of them now and stills, shadowing her eyes with her hand as they approach, the laughter disappearing from her face. Arthur's throat begins to ache. He and his sister stand looking at each other for a few long seconds. Around them the crickets chirp, and from far off in the fields there is the sound of a tractor.

"Arthur," Morgana says, wiping her damp forehead with the back of a hand.

She is even more beautiful than he remembers her, with her sea-green eyes and the pale skin now tinged pink with sun and heat, and her long black hair twisted into a careless knot. Arthur does not trust himself to speak. He loves her, he always has, even when she plotted against him and wanted him dead in their past life; even when she left him lonely and miserable in this one. When he walks up to her she leans down and hugs him, and kisses him softly on the cheek. He hugs her back, hard.

"Don't get sentimental, Arthur," she whispers, as if she can sense him fighting tears.

She has not forgotten - she knows he hates crying. He gives her a grateful kiss, steps back and clears his throat.

"It's good to see you," he says, wincing a little at how bland it sounds, how it does not at all convey what he feels. "Oh, and this is Merlin."

Morgana's eyes light up with interest as she moves her focus to Merlin, who is biting his lip nervously at Arthur's side, but all she says is: "Nice to meet you," and indicates the man beside her: "This is Leon."

_I know_, Arthur wants to say. Because he does know Leon so very well - his companion, so brave and honest and true, the most loyal of knights. Leon who had said he would die for Arthur, and did.

As Leon removes his aviators, Arthur searches for a spark of recognition in his eyes but does not find it. He does see something else, though: the way Leon looks at Morgana, all hazy with love. _Don't hurt her_, he wants to tell Leon, but between Leon and Morgana, Leon is probably more likely to get hurt. But from the way Morgana looks at him in return, perhaps the risk is not all that great.

_Maybe this time around, it can be different_, Arthur thinks. Before, all those centuries ago, he had united Albion but failed spectacularly with the people he loved. He feels Merlin move beside him and turns his head to look at him. The sunlight is behind him, giving him a halo that makes Arthur squint, and he slips his hand to the small of Merlin's back and lets it rest there. The gesture is as possessive as it is protective. He slides his thumb under the hem of Merlin's t-shirt and moves it back and forth over a minute stretch of smooth, warm skin, acutely aware that he has been given a second chance and determined to take it.

Leon steps out of his vat, revealing feet glistening with grape juice, and helps Morgana climb out of hers.

"Do you really do this still?" Merlin pipes up as Leon hoses off their feet. "Pressing the wine with your feet?"

Leon laughs. "God, no, not for the large volumes. But we have volunteers working with the harvest, and they usually want to try the old methods - they want to know what it feels like, treading the grapes. Morgana seems to have a flare for it."

"Of course I have," Morgana says, looking regal even in a workshirt, tatty denim shorts and wet feet. "I'm very good."

Arthur coughs. The look Leon gives Morgana borders on adoration.

"Come in for dinner," he says to Arthur and Merlin, "and sample our wines while we get acquainted." When they thank him, he adds: "But I feel like I know you already."

Arthur looks at his old friend, wondering when he will remember, _if_ he will remember, and says: "So do I."

Something inside him melts away and disappears; a hard knot, a lump of ice; allowing him to breathe more freely than he has in a long time.

As they make their way towards the house, the sun sinks below the treetops and leaves them in shadow, but the roof is still steeped in molten gold, shimmering like a mirage. Arthur walks behind Leon and Morgana and watches their fingers touch. His own hand still rests lightly at the small of Merlin's back. Just as Merlin leans in and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth, Morgana turns her head and smiles at them over her shoulder. Merlin blushes, Morgana laughs, and Arthur stops to take Merlin's face in his hands. _All will be well_, he thinks, gazing into Merlin's dark blue eyes. _All will be well._

He really believes it will. They are all moving forward, they can all make things happen, they will all make better choices because they have learned.

"Come on, Arthur," Merlin says and pulls at him. "I want to try that wine."

Better choices on the whole, Arthur modifies.

"What is wrong with you, Merlin," he says out loud. "You prefer wine to me?"

"Only in public," Merlin breathes in his ear, sending a shiver down Arthur's spine, a hot curl of desire in his stomach.

"Minx," he mutters.

Merlin flutters his eyelashes at him and Arthur takes his hand, interlacing their fingers as they follow Leon and Morgana inside.


End file.
